PILGRin  KINGS 

THO/AAS  -  WALSH 


THE  PILGRIM  KINGS 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK    •    BOSTON  •    CHICAGO  •    DALLAS 
ATLANTA  •    SAN   FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LIMITED 

LONDON  •    BOMBAY  •    CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  LTD. 

TORONTO 


THE  PILGRIM  KINGS 


GRECO  AND  GOYA  AND  OTHER 
POEMS  OF  SPAIN 


BY 

THOMAS  WALSH 
AUTHOR  OP  "THE  PRISON  SHIPS"  AND 

OTHER  POEMS 


fork 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 
1915 

All  rights  reserved 


COPYBIGHT,  1915, 

BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 
Set  up  and  electrotyped.    Published  October,  1915. 


NortoaoU 

J.  8.  Gushing  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith  Co. 
Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


EDWARD  LOUGHBOROUGH  KEYES 


THE  Author  acknowledges  with  pleasure  the 
permission  to  include  in  this  collection  the  dra 
matic  pieces  that  have  made  their  first  appearance 
in  the  Century  and  Berliner's  Magazine,  as  well 
as  the  shorter  contributions  originally  printed  in 
the  British  Review  and  the  Poetry  Magazine  (Eng 
lish),  Harper's  Weekly,  Harper's  Bazar,  Harper's 
Monthly,  The  Messenger,  The  New  Age,  The  Book 
man,  The  Churchman,  The  Bellman,  Poet  Lore,  the 
Ave  Maria,  The  Independent,  America,  The  Rosary, 
the  Catholic  World,  and  the  Ecclesiastical  Review. 


vii  ] 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  PILGRIM  KINGS 1 

INVASION 4 

IN  OLD  TOLEDO 6 

GRECO  PAINTS  HIS  MASTERPIECE        ....  8 

CCELO  ET  IN  TERRA 18 

LOVE'S  CODICIL 21 

SUNSET  BALCONIES 22 

HOLY  WELLS 23 

To  FRAY  JUNIPERO 24 

GRECO'S  LAST  JUDGMENT 26 

THE  BIRTH  OF  PIERROT 39 

ALHAMBRA  SONGS: 

Morning  in  Granada 41 

The  Rider  of  the  Snows  .                                        .  4,3 

On  the  Margin  of  a  Koran 44 

Alhambra  Feast 45 

The  River  Song 46 

In  the  Street  of  the  Dancers 47 

THE  AUTUMN  KINGS 40 

ROAD  SONGS  FROM  THE  ARMENIAN     ....  51 

A  WREATH  FOR  SHAKESPEARE 52 

THE  COLLOQUY  OF  BRIDE 54 

[IX] 


PAGE 

MAID  MARION  WEDS 56 

AT  THE  MANGER'S  SIDE 57 

EGIDIO  OF  COIMBRA 59 

THE  WHITE  RIDER 67 

IN  THE  VICEROY'S  GARDEN         .....  68 

AFTER  THE  RAIN 70 

GEORGETOWN  REVISITED 71 

LA  PRECIOSA 73 

THE  PARTING 76 

THE  HIDING  OF  THE  GRAAL 78 

THE  FORGES  OF  THE  SUN 79 

THE  MAIDS  OF  HONOR 80 

THE  EMBARKMENT  FOR  CYTHERA       ....  92 

ZITHER  SONG 93 

To  A  SONNET  ON  THE  SONNET 94 

THE  BOOK  OF  RIGNALD 95 

THE  CANTICLE  OF  FONTEBRAS 97 

To  FRANCISCO  GOYA 99 

GOYA  IN  THE  CUPOLA 100 

THE  FOUNDLING 110 

JUNGLE  DANCE Ill 

THE  LARKS  OF  GLENDALOTJGH 112 

SISTER  GREGORIA,  TO  A  BIRD  AT  SUNSET  .        .        .  114 

ANTIETAM .  116 

ODES  FROM  THE  SPANISH  OF  FRAY  Luis  DE  LEON: 

To  the  Licenciado  Juan  de  Grial    .        .        .        .119 

The  Heavenly  Pastoral 121 

To  Felipe  Ruiz 123 

To  Our  Lady 126 

[X] 


THE  PILGRIM  KINGS 


THE  PILGRIM  KINGS 

THREE  vagrants  out  along  the  wintry  way 
As  night  is  falling  fast ; 
"And  who  are  ye,  O  strangers  gaunt  and  gray, 

With  eyes  to  heaven  upcast?"  — 
"Three  Eastern  Kings  they  called  us ;  brother,  pray 

Didst  see  the  Star  go  past  ?  "  — 
"The  Star !  —  and  look  ye  for  a  star  to-night 

Through  all  these  blinding  snows ! 
Come,  take  ye  shelter  here ;  no  more  that  Light 

The  sky  of  Bethlehem  knows ; 
But  see,  how  out  against  the  roadway  white 

Some  wounded  footprint  shows  I"  — 
"  Nay,  doubter,  we  must  on !  —  'Twas  ancient  time 

Yet  once  we  saw  that  Star, 
And  left  the  thrones  our  minions  called  sublime 

To  trace  its  path  afar. 
Wouldst  see  a  monarch  boast  of  rags  and  grime  ?  — 

Behold  me  —  Balthasar !  — 
Yea,  these  are  mortal  eyes,  yet  they  have  gazed 

Upon  the  Manger's  state, 
Then  homeward  hastening  from  that  glory  dazed 

I  cried,  '  Throw  wide  the  gate !'  — 
Alas,  to  hear  within  the  wassail  raised 

Where  on  the  high  throne  sate 
[1] 


My  first-born  with  the  gold  and  vine-leaves  crowned. 

'  King  Balthasar  alive ! '  — 

He  paled,  — '  Some  madman  mocks  us !    Seize  the 
hound, 

And  ere  the  dawn  arrive, 
Go,  pelt  him  from  the  realm  ! '    That  night  profound 

I,  still  a  king,  survive." 
"And  I"  —  the  second  ancient  in  a  voice 

As  drear  and  wintry  cries  — 
"  I  Gaspar,  from  a  Magian  throne,  made  choice 

Of  guidance  of  the  skies ; 
On  my  return  they  bade  the  hills  rejoice 

With  flame  and  sacrifice. 
But  when  I  whispered  of  the  mystic  lore 

The  Starlight  had  enshrined  : 
Its  Peace  surpassing  Peace,  its  doom  of  war, 

Its  love  for  all  mankind  — 
They  tore  me  down,  —  proclaimed  me  evermore 

To  banishment  consigned."  — 
"  Then  he,  he  too  was  king  ?  —  yon  wight  that  seems 

Unsteady  as  with  wine  — 
His  eyes  ablaze  as  one  who  stalks  in  dreams 

Some  dismal  street  malign  ?  "  — 
"  Nay,  brother,    hold,  —  thy   hasty    tongue    blas 
phemes 

A  madness  half -divine ! 
[2] 


For  as  at  dawn  from  Bethlehem  Town  we  stole, 

We  spied  him  where  he  lay, 
His  crown  and  sceptre  in  the  gutter  hole, 

With  none  his  name  to  say, 
Or  tell  the  empery  he  bore  —  the  goal 

His  aimless  feet  would  stray. 
So  doth  he  trudge  to  find  the  Star  with  us 

Half  mocking  what  we  seek ; 
They  throw  Life's  tavern  lees  to  stain  him  thus  — 

But  see,  his  eyes  bespeak 
The  Star !  —  The  Star  of  promise  glorious 

That  calls  the  blind  and  weak ! 
Ye  vaults  of  heaven  that  sound  with  prayers  and 
vows, 

Keep  compact  with  our  soul !  — 
See,  they  are  clearing,  —  yonder  starry  boughs 

Proclaim  our  kingly  goal  — 
Yea,  see'st  thou  not  already  round  our  brows 

The  furtive  aureole !" 


[3] 


INVASION 

fTlHE  blast  came  down  with  ribald  hand 

-*-      And  wrenched  the  autumn  arrases  apart, 

The  weavings  of  the  bronzed  oak, 

The  scarlet  maple's  broidered  art,  — 

Threw  back  the  sumach's  royal  pall,  and  broke 

The  chrismed  seals  of  summerland. 

Ye  chantries  of  the  drowsy  day, 

With  what  a  cry  ye  fled  away,  — 

As  icy  breath  and  clamor  swept 

Your  golden  crypts  and  chancels  dim 

Where  crowns  and  croziers  rusting  kept 

Their  tryst  of  prayer  and  hymn  ! 

What  barefoot  patter  on  the  leaves,  — 

As  through  their  desecration  ran 

The  waif  and  ruffian  days  !     What  crumbled  eaves 

And  finials,  what  drench  and  tear 

Of  banner,  and  of  sanctuary  veil,  — 

From  out  the  cloister  glens  what  wail,  — 

As  through  their  birchen  grates  foul  hands  began 

To  snatch  at  chalice,  plate,  and  talisman, 

And  red  mouths  sputtered  with  the  hallowed  wine ! 

Then  great  winds  booming  there  ! 

And  the  seraphic  windows  crashing  to  the  pave, — 

Their  morns  and  sunsets  dispossest 
[4] 


Save  when  a  gust  from  out  the  jealous  West 
Scooped  the  spilt  frondage  of  their  red  and  gold 
To  frame  a  jewel  for  his  shaggy  breast. 
Hark  !  —  the  invader's  trumpets  down  the  nave  : 
"  Lo,  the  great  Anarch  of  the  year  divine, 
Winter  unconquerable  !  —  tremble,  and  behold  ! " 


[5] 


IN  OLD  TOLEDO 

Toledo,  citadel 

Where  the  outlawed  visions  dwell 
On  the  mitred  crags  of  Spain, 
What  grim  earthquake  heaved  you  high 
Out  to  brave  the  sands  and  sky,  — 
Gothic  sphinx,  —  for  Time's  disdain  ? 

From  your  stronghold  yet  looks  down 
Spain's  old  challenge  in  your  frown, 

Though  in  dust  are  scimitars, 
Crowns,  and  croziers ;  and  by  night 
Greco's  visions,  ghosts  of  blight, 

Pace  your  alleys  from  the  stars. 

Here  the  sandalled  feet  have  trod 
In  their  anarchy  of  God ; 

Here  was  seen  His  aureole ; 
Violence  of  heaven  at  heart, 
Here  they  scourged  and  prayed  apart 

In  seraglios  of  the  soul. 

Sultans,  Kings,  and  Primates  gone,  — 
Crescent,  Cross,  and  gonfalon 
[6] 


Shine  but  down  a  sunset  world ; 
Yet  the  chimes  of  hope  and  love 
Murmur  round  your  slopes  above 
Where  the  poppies  are  unfurled, 
For  Louis  Vernon  Ledoux. 


[7] 


GRECO  PAINTS  HIS  MASTERPIECE 

SCENE  :  the  Cigarral  de  Buenavista,  Toledo,  1588. 

DOMENICO  THEOTOCOPULI  ("El  Greco") : 

A  T  last  that  red  orb  drops  away  —  there  goes 
•**•  The  Angelus !    Ave  Maria !  —  Hear 
The  ringing  of  your  sacristan,  Senor  — 
That  bell  of  yours,  I  tell  you,  is  too  large 
For  Santo  Tome's  beams ! 

You  found  our  songs 

Of  Crete  too  sad  the  other  day ;  perchance 
Ibn-Ezra  has  some  lighter  tunes.    Make  haste, 
Lad,  bring  your  lute  into  the  garden-house, 
And  try  that  Moorish  snatch  —  the  laughing  one 
The  Senor  Cura  of  Illescas  sang.  — 
As  for  myself  I  choose  severer  chants, 
Stern  dirges  piercing  as  an  icy  blade  — 
Remember,  Don  Andres,  I  am  "the  Greek"; 
'Tis  this  I'd  have  my  masterpiece  reveal 
Where  Don  Gonzalo  Ruiz,  Orgaz's  Lord 
Is  seen  entombed,  the  Paleologue  he  is, 
Amid  our  group  of  Greeks  and  humanists. 
I  love  your  ghostly  dawns,  your  tumbled  hills, 
Toledo's  walls  and  alleys  ere  the  mists 
Are  wholly  routed  by  the  noon,  —  a  friend 
[8] 


Or  two  for  converse,  some  good  monk  returned 

From  India  or  the  lands  of  heretics 

With  stories  of  strange  tortures,  beasts,  and  fruits, 

And  devilries  in  regions  where  the  name 

Of  Jesus  never  woke :  or,  stranger  still, 

The  wonders  of  the  cells  and  cloisters  here 

Within  the  city,  when  some  friar  or  nun 

Is  marked  with  Christ's  own  wounds  of  hands  and 

feet, 
Raised  from  the  ground  in  prayer,  or  scourged  all 

night 

By  angry  demons.  —  Then  on  summer  eves 
To  stroll  with  Tirso  or  Hortencio 
Along  the  orchard  steeps,  among  the  urns 
And  marbles  our  great  Cardinal  bequeathed ; 
Discussing  the  last  treasure-trove  from  Greece, 
Some  coin  or  broken  torse,  some  palimpsest 
Sent  by  the  Rabbi's  hand  to  be  confirmed 
By  Covarrubias ;  then  home  again 
To  read  my  Valdivielso  and  to  watch 
Geronima  and  Jorge  at  their  play, 
Here  on  my  terrace,  where  my  nightly  cup 
Of  good  esquibias  awaits.     I  trust 
The  dry  wine  pleases  Your  Paternity  ? 
Your  health,  Don  Andres.     Now  to  business ; 
They  say  you've  won  your  suit  ? 
[9] 


DON  ANDRES  NUNEZ  DE  MADRID,  CURA  OP  SANTO 
TOME: 

At  last !  —  There  came 
An  order  by  the  Primate's  courier 
This  morning ;  the  bequest  holds  good ;  therefore 
The  Chancellor  declares  Orgaz  must  pay 
Its  Lord's  demise  as  though  'twere  newly  made 
And  not  some  hundred  years  ago,  —  and  pay 
The  arrears.     We  now  can  count  our  maravedis 
To  match  with  any  canon  in  the  town ; 
So,  what  with  fowls,  and  wines,  and  grain,  and  wood 
In  annual  tithings  from  those  granite  fists, 
The  Orgaz  peasants,  now  our  little  church 
Can  be  restored ;  besides  we  are  prepared 
To  pay  your  ducats. 

GRECO  : 

Then  tomorrow  morn ; 
But  'tis  no  sale,  remember :  you  advance 
The  appointed  sums,  and  hold  the  work  so  long 
As  I  do  not  demand  it  and  repay. 

DON  ANDRES: 

Your  usual  terms ;  we  do  agree  to  all. 
[10] 


GRECO  : 

I'll  have  them  set  it  on  the  terrace  here ; 
This  twilight  takes  a  like  effect  of  gray 
As  Santo  Tome's  nave.    Tobal !  Gaspar !  — 
Bring  out  the  canvas-frame  —  "The  Burial 
Of  Don  Gonzalo"  —  Careful,  too;  the  top 
Is  wet.  —  You  blockheads !  careful  there,  I  say  1  — 
Nay,  you  Ibn-Ezra,  keep  your  lute  a-tune ; 
Don  Andres  loves  the  old  Galician  school, 
So  play  Manrique's  song,  "The  Penalties 
The  Absent  Know."    There,  lads;     now  turn  it 
round  — 

DON  ANDRES: 

Santisima!  —  but  'tis  a  miracle  !  — 
Gonzalo  in  his  Flemish  steel  I  —  The  saints, 
Augustine  !  —  Stephen  !  —  in  their  cloth  of  gold 
Come  down  from  heaven  to  lay  him  in  the  tomb ; 
The  Bishop  silver-bearded  like  a  star ; 
And  Stephen  with  his  amber-cherry  cheeks ; 
Your  Jorge  pointing  in  his  velvet  coat ! 
And  I  with  book  and  cope  of  Requiem ! 
Our  Pedro  Ruyz  surpliced  !  —  And  our  cross ! 
The  caballeros  too  !    Well  pleased  they'll  be 
To  live  forever  pictured  in  our  church  I 

tin 


Poor  Santo  Tome  cannot  lack  again 

For  patrons !  —  Ne'er,  I  vow,  did  mortal  brush 

Create  such  blacks  and  gold,  such  damascene  — 

GRECO  : 

The   heavens?    The   heavens,    Paternity?  —  Your 

thoughts 

Of  them,  Maestro-theologue  that  shone 
In  the  Trilingue  of  Alcala  ?  — 
Or  are  you  fain  to  avoid  the  theme  I  gave 
The  Inquisitor  Don  Nino  when  he  came 
This  morning  prying  wherefore  did  I  paint 
My  angels'  wings  so  large  ?  —  or  did  I  doubt 
That  seraphs  were  pure  spirits  ?  yea  or  nay  ? 
Or  did  I  lean  to  Scotus  and  opine 
Their  nature  held  some  sort  of  matter,  so, 
Perchance,  I  feared  that  smaller  wings  might  fail 
To  bear  their  beings  up  ?  —  I  gave  him  back 
Some  queries  like  his  own :  Were  those  angelicals 
Held  pure  by  the  Aquinas  ?    Spanish  schools 
Of  old  said  no,  with  Scotus  and  Bernard. 
'Tis  "  certain  faith,"  the  Lateran  fathers  held,  — 
"Angels  are  bodiless"  —  that  much  at  least 
Is  dogma ;  then  what  need  to  give  them  wings 
At  all,  Senor  Inquisidor  f  —  With  that 
He  hied  him  off,  and  I  heard  tell  it  made 
[12] 


Great  chatter  at  the  Carmelitas  where 
This  afternoon  they  brewed  the  chocolate 
New-come  from  their  Manila  mission-house. 
But  none  can  put  me  in  the  wrong ;  my  creed 
Is  paint ;  let  them  keep  theirs  in  words. 

DON  ANDRES: 

And  yet,  Domenico,  meseems  you  teach 
Theology  — 

GRECO  : 

And  wherefore  not  ?  Are  words 
To  be  the  only  signs  of  thought  ?  —  if  sounds, 
Then  why  not,  with  our  lights  and  shades,  denote 
Distinctions,  entities  of  soul  and  mind, 
As  well  as  mere  corporealities  ? 
Thus  see  you  the  intent  I  here  pursue : 
No  master  of  Valencia  or  Seville 
In  craftsmanship  has  ever  matched  the  brush 
Wherewith  I  paint  the  scene  —  the  lower  half  — 
As  actual  as  when  the  miracle 
Was  wrought  in  Santo  Tome  as  they  brought 
The  corpse  for  burial,  whereon  appeared 
The  saints,  and  solemnly  composed  its  bed 
With  their  own  hands.     But  how,  so  scorning  words, 
Interpret  well  the  scene,  except  I  show 
[13] 


Wherefore  Toledo's  priests  and  notables 
Bear  so  resigned  a  grief  ?  —  are  gazing  up 
With  such  a  trust  in  heaven?    What  though  your 
self, 

Don  Pedro,  Don  Diego,  wise  Antonio, 
The  knights,  myself,  and  Jorge,  and  the  friars, 
Are  here  portrayed  to  life,  were  there  not  such 
As  we  assembled  thus  some  eight  score  years 
Ago,  whose  faith  was  in  the  skies,  who  saw 
With  eyes  of  flesh  that  miracle  performed  ? 
Yea,  I  myself  have  caught  such  visionings, 
And  here  display  —  with  emphasis  and  shade, 
Foreshortening  this  at  will  and  lengthening  that, 
Troubling  the  line  or  smoothing  it  as  seemed 
By  rapture  warranted,  —  for  every  Greek 
Is  something  of  a  rhapsodist  at  heart. 
See  how  my  torches  point  all  eyes  and  thoughts 
Toward  heaven.     The  crucifer  lifts  up  the  Sign 
Of  Our  Redemption  till  it  cleaves  the  bound 
Between  us  and  our  goal.     A  seraph  wing 
Denoting  love-entire  is  cleaving  through 
The  cloud  that  is  half-winding-sheet,  to  bear 
Gonzalo's  soul  —  new-born  to  perfect  bliss ; 
That  cherub  intermediate,  who  speaks 
Of  reason-joined-to-love,  would  usher-in 
The  Cross,  whence  flock  the  roundel  cherubim 
[14] 


As  though,  like  swallows  darting  from  its  eaves, 

To  greet  the  eternal  day.     Here  uppermost 

Sits  Christ  upon  the  clouds  imperial ; 

His  body  real,  as  He  rose  from  death ; 

And  at  His  knees,  Our  Lady  also  real, 

As  you  behold,  since  also  she  in  heaven 

Holds  a  perfected  flesh.     Doubtless  you  now 

Surmise  from  this  philosophy  why  here 

The  Baptist,  though  in  glory,  shows  a  mien 

So  crude  and  so  elongate  with  the  light 

Half -frosted  on  his  being  incomplete,  — 

As  well  as  the  Apostles  and  the  Elect, 

Who  must  await  till  Resurrection  bring 

Their  natural  union  with  their  bodies  back ; 

But  look,  what  solid  keys  old  Peter  swings 

Across  the  gulf  'twixt  heaven  and  man !    How  all 

Take  form  and  being  only  as  the  light 

From  Christ  plays  through  them !  —  'Tis  my  firm 

resolve 

Some  day  to  paint  them  with  less  earthly  dross 
Than  clogs  them  here,  Don  Andres  — 

DON  ANDRES: 

Verily 

Thou  preachest  an  evangel,  yet  I  fear 
Our  humble  folk  of  Santo  Tome's  church 
Will  find  your  heaven  is  cold  — 
[15] 


GRECO  : 

That  well  may  be ; 

But  think  you,  Senor  Cura,  that  I  left 
My  flowery  schools  of  Venice  and  of  Rome 
To  gather  warmth  and  color  in  Castile  ?  — 
Let  others  use  such  vulgar  splendors  — 

DON  ANDRES: 

Nay, 

Good  friend  Domenico,  take  no  offence.  — 
We  wait  your  picture  and  your  hand  to  mark 
Its  place   upon   our  walls.     (Aside)    The   arch   is 

dim, 

And  few  will  mind  his  dismal  bit  of  heaven. 
It  hardly  matters  now.     (Aloud)     The  air  grows 

chill; 

Our  bells  for  Animas  will  shortly  ring,  — 
I  must  make  haste,  Maestro,  into  town  — 
To-morrow,  then  ?  — 

GRECO  : 

Before  your  mass  is  done 
The  lads  shall  bring  the  canvas-roll,  and  I 
Myself  shall  stretch  it  on  the  wall.  —  Be  quick, 
Tobal,  and  Santiago,  —  torches,  swords, 
And  cloaks !  Escort  the  Sefior  Cura  home 

[16] 


Across  the  Juderia !  —  Until  morning, 
Don  Andres  — 

DON  ANDRES: 
God  be  with  you. 

GRECO  : 

Go  with  God. 
For  William  Rose  Benet. 


[17] 


CCELO  ET  IN  TERRA 

T71ARTH  is  a  jealous  mother;  from  her  breast 
"^   She  will  endure  no  separation  long 
From  aught  she  bore ; 
So  one  by  one 
She  claimeth  evermore 
The  parent  and  the  friend  — 
The  loveliest  and  best, 
The  meek,  the  faithful,  and  the  strong,  — 
Till,  link  by  golden  link  undone, 
The  very  tomb  that  seems 
To  youth  the  dismal  gulf  of  all  that's  fair, 
Becomes  the  chosen  hearthstone  of  our  dreams, 
The  wonder-house  of  all  most  rare, 
Most  deathless,  and  most  dear ; 
Where  the  bereaved  heart, 
Life's  exile  held  apart, 

Would  turn  for  love-warmth  and  abiding  cheer. 
Yea,  —  earth  can  be  so  kind.  — 
Then  ye  that  rule  the  wind, 
Are  ye  of  less  appeal  ? 
Ye  spirits  of  the  stars 
And  regions  where  the  suns 
Themselves  as  atoms  wheel 
Beneath  your  thundering  cars  ? 
[18] 


Cerulean  ones !  — 

Or  goddesses,  or  saints, 

Or  demiurge,  or  Trinities, 

Wherewith  heaven  highest  faints ! 

Are  ye  less  kind  than  these 

Dim  vaults  of  clay, 

Ye  boasts  and  fathers  of  the  ancient  day  ? 

Thou  god  Avernian,  Dis  I  —  behold 

What  timid  form  and  old 

Adown  thy  purple  gulf  descends 

Unto  the  arch  of  Death  —  (Grim  friend   of 

friends  I 

Be  thou  placated !)  Tis  a  mother,  see, 
Takes  her  first  step  —  a  child  —  into  eternity ! 
Leave  her  not  fearful  there 
Who  was  of  love  entire, 
So  gentle  and  so  fair !  — 
Thy  majesty  and  dread  withhold 
For  the  high  head  and  bold,  — 
Imperial  Death,  mock  not  thyself  with  ire ! 
Nay,  —  then  it  was  not  fear 
That  stayed  her  foot  the  while ; 
For  now  her  lovely  eyes, 
Unclouded,  brown, 

Are  lighted  with  their  greeting  smile  — 
The  Hand  awaited  through  the  gloom 
[19] 


Is  seen !  —  her  whitened  forehead  lies 
Upon  the  Shepherd's  shoulder  down  — 
Yea,  —  her  own  Jesu  comes,  —  to  lead 
Unto  the  meadows  where  is  Peace  indeed 


[20] 


LOVE'S  CODICIL 

TTTHAT  though  my  name  may  sound  no  more 
Across  the  laughter  of  your  days, 

What  though  our  little  paths  of  yore 
You  may  forsake  for  other  ways, 

Though  other  radiant  eyes  you  see 
When  glory's  morn  is  round  you  blowing 
And  brighter  smiles  to  yours  are  glowing,  — 

When  you  are  sad,  remember  me. 

'Twill  e'en  be  gladness  should  you  know 

A  faithful  love  and  share  a  dream 
Wherein  no  part  is  mine,  —  but  oh, 

There  is  a  torment  most  extreme 
Will  rack  the  very  ghost  I'll  be,  — 

Should  you  despair,  or  think  me  sleeping 

If  sorrow's  vigils  you  are  keeping,  — 
When  you  are  sad,  remember  me. 


[21] 


SUNSET  BALCONIES 

TT10R  me  no  winter  twilight  falls 

•*-    But  brings  a  dream  of  gold, 

Since  well  I  know  their  dear  white  walls 

Are  gleaming  as  of  old ; 
I  know  that  down  arcaded  square 
And  narrow  street  they  still  are  there,  — 

Dolores,  Pilar,  Mercedes,  — 

Reclining  in  the  balconies. 

Mercedes,  who  belies  the  name 
Of  her  sweet  patroness  renowned 

As  Queen  of  Mercies,  shrined  in  flame, 
At  Barcelona  crowned ; 

And  Pilar,  little  face  of  rose, 

Whose  Virgin  on  the  pillar  glows 
At  Saragossa ;  there  they  rest, 
Their  dark  eyes  golden  with  the  west. 

Though  seven  swords  of  silver  press,  — 
There  in  Granada's  shrine,  — 

Her  velvet-mantled  patroness 
Of  Mother-Grief  divine, 

Dolores  only  smiles  to  scan 

The  sunset  on  her  spangled  fan, 
Whose  sparkle  lights  again  the  grace 
That  memory  treasures  of  her  face. 
[22] 


HOLY  WELLS 

TTTE  are  the  eyes  of  the  waters  under  the  earth ; 
'^     Peer  down,  little  worldlings,  and  learn  what 

your  beauty  is  worth 
In  our  moss-lidded  gaze  that  is  troubled  by  never 

a  wind, 
Where  winter  is  mellowed,  where  even  the  daystar 

is  kind. 

Here  framed  in  a  mirror  of  wonder  your  image  behold, 
A  shadow  'twixt  day  and  the  waters  eternal  that  rolled 
Out  of  chaos !  Come,  whisper  your  grief  or  your 

gladness,  and  hear 
How   your   sob   shall   be   laughter,   your   laughter 

delirious  cheer. 
Ask  not  are  we  lonely,  when  full  in  the  spite  of  the 

noon 
The  stars  come  to  woo  us ;  nor  seek  to  interpret  the 

croon 
We  forever  shall  murmur  whilst  Earth  is  the  babe 

of  our  breast. 
We  are  daughters  of  Chaos,  and  trothed  to  the  words 

of  the  Blest ; 
Our  eyes  are  the  eyes  of  the  oceans  that  earth  has 

o'ergrown ; 
Peer  down,  little  children  of  Time,  whilst  to-day  is 

your  own. 

[23] 


TO  FRAY  JUNIPERO 

The  Bi-Centenary  of  Padre  Serra,  San  Francisco, 
California,  1713-1913 


that  in  Palma  paced  the  cloister  paving 
And  taught  the  Subtle  Doctor  in  the  schools, 
Yet  left  your  tranquil  isle,  the  tempests  braving 
To  face  the  tomahawks  and  jeers  of  fools,  — 

Junipero,  ha !  ha !  —  you  wept  and  shouted 
And  tore  your  bosom  with  a  jagged  stone, 

When  the  poor  Indians  at  your  sermons  doubted 
The  clearest  things  philosophy  had  shown,  — 

You  lashed  your  shoulders  and  to  blazing  torches 
Laid  bare  your  breast  —  to  make  "the  brutes" 
believe ; 

Junfpero,  you  limped  to  heaven  with  scorches, 
But  took  their  souls,  like  scalps,  upon  your  sleeve ! 

I  wonder  would  you  try  your  syllogisms 

From  Scotus,  if  you  came  unto  the  tribes 
That  fill  the  air  with  fads  and  frills  and  schisms, 
Or  with  your  scourge  and  torches  meet  their 
gibes? 

[24] 


You  may  be  certain  many  would  debate  you 
Among  the  learned  sachems  of  to-day, 

Though  few  are  likely  now  to  emulate  you 

And  hurt  themselves  to  bring  their  tribes  to  pray. 

For  Charles  Phillips. 


[25] 


GRECO'S  LAST  JUDGMENT 

SCENE  :   The  Refectory  of  Santa  Maria  de  la  Sisla  in 
the  Mountains  of  Tokdo,  1604. 

THE  FATHER  PRIOR  LUPO: 

Nay,  patience,  patience,  Fathers !  —  You  will  see 
How  Don  Domenico  will  settle  him  — 

FRAY  JUSEPE  DE  PAMPLONA: 
The  little  rogue  — 

FRAY  POMPONIO  DE  REGLA: 

I  warned  you  not  to  trust 
His  angel  face  — 


PRIOR  LUPO: 
Pomponio,  —  enough ; 


Where  is  he  now  ? 


FRAY  LEANDRO  DE  CADIZ: 

Below  with  Brother-Cook, 
Railing  against  us  in  the  scullery  — 
Calling  us  niggards,  misers  of  the  gold 
The  Emperor  and  Don  Philip  heaped  on  us  — 
[26] 


Swearing  to  shame  us  throughout  all  Castile 
Unless  we  pay  the  ducats. 

PRIOR  LUPO: 

M ed  culpd  ! 

I  should  have  made  some  bargain  with  the  lad 
When  first  he  entered  here.     Who  could  foresee 
His  impudence  ?     I  wished  a  bit  of  art 
To  decorate  my  cell ;   'twas  fine  enough 
Before,  as  Fray  Pomponio  sees  fit 
To  hint  abroad ;  yet,  as  it  is  the  wont 
Of  prelates  and  grandees  to  visit  us, 
And  to  receive  them  there  is  left  to  me, 
My  cell,  it  seemed,  might  with  decorum  boast 
Some  sacred  canvas  from  El  Greco's  brush  — 
"A  Francis  on  La  Verna,"  —  just  enough 
To  show  we  had  not  always  overlooked 
Toledo's  greatest  painter,  —  we  the  monks 
They  call  the  "wealthy  Hieronymites." 
But  he  refused,  alleging  his  frail  health 
And  broken  age,  complaining  that  our  house 
So  oft  misprized  his  work  when  he  was  young 
That  now  we  were  too  late ;  he  proffered  us 
Luis  Tristan  his  favorite,  the  best, 
He  said,  of  all  his  pupils.     Half  constrained, 
I  gave  the  youngster  the  commission. 
[27] 


FRAY  CAETANO  DE  UCLES: 

Then 

We  had  this  impish  village  brat  sent  here 
To  laugh  at  us,  his  lip  but  hardly  dark 
With  manhood  — 

FRAY  POMPONIO: 

A  mere  urchin  here  to  paint 
The  Assisian's  Vision  for  La  Sisla's  friars !  — 
There,  Father  Lupo,  there  you  see  exposed 
The  old  Greek's  venom  in  his  little  snake ! 

PRIOR  LUPO: 

Misjudge  not  Don  Dom6nico.    What  fault 
Had  we  to  find  with  Tristan  ?     Brother-Cook 
Indeed  wras  guilty  when  he  served  him  bread 
Hot  from  the  bake-house  at  forbidden  hours. 
True,  he  was  sleepy-headed  serving  Mass, 
And  scratched  Pomponio's  profile  on  the  back 
Of  the  pet  turtle  —  a  mere  boyish  prank  — 

FRAY  ISIDRO  DE  GUADALUPE: 

Moreover  he  has  wrought  a  masterpiece 
Of  rapture  of  the  soul !  El  Greco's  self 
Could  scarce  do  better ! 

[28] 


FRAY  JUSEPE: 

But  the  price  he  claims ! 
These  stories  of  the  Emperor  and  King 
I  fear  will  be  our  ruin.     There  be  some 
That  say  our  very  cells  are  lined  with  gold ! 
What  have  we  coine  to,  when  this  artist  tribe 
Can  scold  for  money  ?  —  when  a  peasant  brat 
Whom  Don  Domenico  has  scrubbed  and  combed 
Sets  up  to  bait  us  for  two  hundred  ducats  ? 

FRAY  CAETANO: 

Virgin  of  Guadalupe !  —  After  all 

Our  kindness  toward  the  lad !    With  so  much  gold 

What  harm  might  come  to  him!    His  youth's  to 

blame ; 

We  did  but  wish  to  encourage  him  to  work, 
But  not  to  indulge  his  greed  and  vanity. 

PRIOR  LUPO: 

His  master  will  decide ;  have  patience,  for 
I  know  he'll  come  and  set  Tristan  to  right, 
When  once  he  hears  the  matter.     It  is  time 
Old  Jose  and  the  mules  had  fetched  him  here. 
Go  see,  Leandro 

[29] 


FRAY  LEANDRO: 

They  are  coming  now 
Around  the  hill.     'Tis  Don  Domenico  !  — 


FRAY  CAETANO: 

And  not  a  whit  too  soon !    For  all  his  aches 
And  bandages,  El  Greco  never  fails 
Where  there  is  quarrelling  on !  — 

PRIOR  LUPO: 

Then  welcome  him, 
Brave  Caetano ;  you,  Leandro,  too, 
Run  down  and  greet  the  carriage.     Let  us  show 
The  aged  painter  he  has  reverence  here. 

FRAY  LEANDRO: 

Seiior  Maestro  Don  Domenico, 
Be  welcome  to  La  Sisla ! 

FRAY  CAETANO: 

Welcome  here. 

The  Father  Prior  sends  me  out  to  say 
Himself  is  coming  forth  to  greet  you  — 
[30] 


PRIOR  LUPO: 

Prince 

Of  all  the  Arts  and  Glory  of  Toledo, 
Welcome,  you  bring  honor  to  our  house !  — 
Let  me  assist  you  to  alight  —  (Aside)  Go  quick, 
Leandro,  have  the  Brother-Minister 
Get  out  the  royal  plate  and  tapestries  — 

DOMENICO  THEOTOCOPULI  ("El  Greco") : 

Greetings,  good  Seiior  Prior,  —  would  my  years 

Might  weigh  less  heavy.     But  your  wise  Jose 

Drove  slowly  from  the  Cigarral.     And  you, 

Fray  Caetano,  —  Fray  Isidro,  —  bloom 

Like  roses  in  this  healthy  mountain  air ! 

You,  Father-Prior,  you,  Pomponio 

Most  reverend,  look,  meseems,  but  half  your  age  — 

And  now  for  that  young  scamp  of  mine 

That  causes  all  this  turmoil  among  friends  — 

PRIOR  LUPO: 

Nay,  speak  of  him  anon,  —  when  you  have  gained 
Some  rest  and  light  refreshment  in  my  cell ; 
There  you  will  find  the  painting  he  has  made. 
Go,  Fray  Jusepe,  you,  and  summon  him. 
Leandro,  take  the  Master's  other  arm  — 
[31J 


There,  —  now  arrange  the  cushions  at  his  back  — 
So  —  lay  his  staff  and  crutch  beside  his  chair  — 

GRECO  : 

Were  I  but  younger,  Father-Prior,  I 

Would  come  and  paint  the  vista  round  your  hill,  — 

Toledo  heaped  upon  her  rocks,  the  foaming  gorge, 

The  gray  volcanic  cliffs  —  alack-a-day !  — 

But  now  Tristan  —  is  that  his  painting  frame  ?  — 

PRIOR  LUPO: 

Nay,  not  before  you  sip  our  Santo  grown 
In  our  Escorial  vineyards.     Serve  the  cakes 
Of  cinnamon,  Isfdro  — 

GRECO  : 

Precious  wine ! 

Stay,  let  me  see  the  tray  —  'tis  kingly  too ; 
None  else  save  Benvenuto  models  thus !  — 
Alas,  good  Fathers,  all  too  ill  am  I 
For  other  food  than  prayers.    The  picture  now  — 
Where  is  my  lad  ? 

Luis  TRISTAN: 

Here  Don  Domenico. 
[32] 


GRECO  : 

Be  not  afraid ;  stand  up  and  answer  me. 
What  was  my  bidding  when  I  sent  you  first 
To  do  the  painting  for  the  Father-Prior  ? 

TRISTAN  : 

To  rule  my  conduct  as  you  would  your  own ; 
To  paint  as  though  I  were  yourself  when  young, 

GRECO  : 
And  this  you  did  ?  — 

PRIOR  LUPO: 

His  work  is  excellent. 

GRECO: 

But  yet  the  Fathers  have  complained  you  take 
Advantage  of  their  goodness. 

TRISTAN  : 

When  I  asked 

Two  hundred  ducats  they  would  pat  my  head 
And  tell  me  I  am  young,  and  promise  me 
Some  other  work.    When  I  demand  the  price 
Then  Fray  Pomponio  calls  me  arrant  rogue, 
And  Father-Prior  sighs  —  but  will  not  pay  — 
D  [33] 


GRECO  : 

They  have  done  well,  perhaps,  to  put  a  curb 

Upon  your  vanity.     But  these  complaints 

About  your  grave  infractions  of  the  rules  — 

Burning  your  taper  every  night  in  bed 

To  read  the  "Lazarillo"  !  —  pilfering 

The  hot  fresh  bread  from  out  the  oven  doors ! 

TRISTAN  : 

Such  rules  are  made  but  for  their  novices. 
At  first,  I  know,  I  had  my  fill  of  cakes, 
But  now  I  get  but  angry  words  and  looks 
And  kind  old  Brother-Cook  does  penances. 

PRIOR  LUPO: 

'Tis  quite  the  truth,  good  Don  Domenico ; 
We  have  indulged  the  lad  too  much,  I  fear, 
Finding  him  whimsical  and  bright-of-eye ; 
But  when  he  took  into  his  head  to  ask 
Two  hundred  ducats  for  his  task  —  and  he 
A  mere  apprentice  without  works  or  fame  — 
Why  then  we  did  refuse.    'Twas  his  demand 
To  send  for  you  to  be  the  arbiter ; 
But  knowing  your  infirmities,  we  feared 
To  give  you  trouble. 

[34] 


GRECO  : 

Trouble  —  do  you  say  ?  — 
First  let  me  see  his  picture.  —  So,  —  ha !  ha ! 
You  scamp,  you  ask  two  hundred  ducats,  eh  ?  — 
My  stick !  —  My  crutch !  —  Nay,   let  me  at  him 
there ! 

TRISTAN  : 
Mercy,  have  mercy ! 

GRECO  : 

Let  him  not  escape  — 

Hold  him,  Pomponio !  —  Bring  him  here  to  me. 
Now  let  me  see  the  work  again.  —  My  Luis ! 
You  painted  this  —  this  rapture  of  the  heavens  — 
Francis  with  Christ's  own  wounds  of  hands  and 

feet, 

The  winged  Crucifixion  in  his  eyes !  — 
You  painted  this  —  and  yet,  you  little  knave, 
You  would  disgrace  our  craft  and  steal  the  bread 
From  honest  mouths !  — 

PRIOR  LUPO  : 

Nay,  Master,  strike  him  not  I 
The  boy  is  young  —  we  wish  him  well  — 
[35] 


FRAY  POMPONIO: 
Next  time  he  may  know  better  — 

FRAY  LEANDRO: 

You  forget 
He  would  submit  the  judgment  to  your  word. 

PRIOR  LUPO: 
Come,  the  poor  lad's  in  tears ! 

FRAY  CAETANO: 

Which  show  at  least 
There  is  some  good  in  him. 

GRECO  : 

He  has  brought  shame 
Upon  my  school  and  me !  —  To  rob  the  poor  I  — 

FRAY  POMPONIO: 
He's  but  a  novice  — 

GRECO  : 

Novice,  do  you  say  ? 
In  faith  he  is !  to  spoil  the  artist's  price 
And  ask  a  mere  two  hundred  ducats,  when 
His   work   is   worth  five   hundred!  —  Come,  you 
scamp, 

[36] 


Five  hundred  ducats  is  your  price,  you  hear, 
And  not  a  maravedi  less,  or  back 
To  town  Saint  Francis  goes  with  us  at  once !  — 
Roll  up  the  canvas  — 

PKIOR  LUPO: 

Don  Domenico !  — 

FRAY  POMPONIO: 

He'll  make  us  laughing-stocks !  —  I  told  you  so. 

There's  not  a  convent  in  Toledo  where 

I'll  show  my  face  this  many  a  day  to  come  I 

FRAY  ISIDRO: 

Lose  not  a  moment,  Father  Prior ;  pay 
The  ducats  down  at  once. 

GRECO  : 

The  Brother  knows 

A  bargain ;  I  commend  your  sense,  Isidro. 
Be  sure,  not  all  La  Sisla's  eminence 
Will  match  through  future  ages  with  the  fame 
My  little  Luis  Tristan's  prentice  work 
Will  bring  your  house. 

[37] 


PRIOR  LUPO: 

We'll  close  this  business ; 
Let  Brother-Bursar  fetch  the  gold. 

TRISTAN  : 

Your  hand, 

Maestro,  blesses  when  it  strikes !    I  kneel 
To  kiss  it  -— 

GRECO  : 

Nay,  my  Luisito,  come 

To  my  embrace !  —  my  blessing  and  my  pride ! 
For  Joyce  Kilmer. 


[38] 


THE   BIRTH  OF  PIERROT 

TTTAS  it  a  bird  that  sang  ?  —  was  it  the  plash 
Of  silvery  water  —  that  awakened  me  ?  — 
It  seemed  that  at  the  dark  wood's  edge,  some  flash 

Of  moonlight  set  my  soul  from  prison  free ; 
And  all  the  grim  primeval  memories 

Of  cruel  strife,  of  loveless  hearts  that  groped 
In  caves  and  gloom,  shook  off  some  long  disease 

And,  springing  forth,  my  heart  took  flower,  and 

hoped. 
Now  down  the  world  I  run  —  a  fugitive, 

Tapping  in  snows  upon  your  window-pane, 
Or  laughing  in  the  sunlit  showers  that  give 

The  April  blossoms  to  the  hills  again. 
I  am  half  faun,  half  angel,  butterfly  !  — 

The  lover  sees  me  flitting  o'er  the  hill  — 
Ah,  well  he  knows  it  is  no  flower  —  but  I, 

Pierrot  —  the  springtime  with  its  thrill ! 
She  at  her  casement  leaning  hears  my  song 

A- whisper  down  the  trellis,  rose  to  rose ; 
I  am  the  moonbeam  there  that  lingers  long 

To  light  his  face  in  dreams  to  her  repose. 
Yea,  — •  I  am  all  the  wit  and  laughter  faint 

Of  all  the  world  !  —  the  gleam  of  life  and  art,  — 
Prince  Fantasy  —  the  sinner  and  the  saint,  — 
[39] 


The  child-philosopher  in  every  heart ! 
Passing,  I  yet  remain  in  memory 

So  all  I  touch  again  grows  glad  and  young ; 
My  blossom-wand  I  wave  !  —  again  shall  be 

The  dance  of  youths  and  maids,  and  music  sung  ! 
For  Mrs.  Morton  Mitchell. 


[40] 


nn 


ALHAMBRA  SONGS 

(1) 

MORNING  IN  GRENADA 
HOU  that  art  covered,  rise,  and  magnify 


Thy  Lord,  and  purge  thy  garments  of  all  stain, 
And  from  thy  spirit  put  uncleanness  by  - 
Thou  that  art  covered  rise !"  —  Hark,  'tis  the  cry 
Of  morn  across  the  mountain  and  the  plain ! 

Among  the  hills  Granada  takes  the  glow 

Of  love's  first  blush  as  on  some  lovely  breast ; 
Alhambra  green  against  the  pillowed  snow 
Hears  from  the  minarets  in  town  below 
Muezzins  calling,  —  "Allah,  Allah  blest  I" 

Bells  through  Granada,  —  bells  that  jangle  down 

With  pattering  of  mule-hoofs  from  the  peaks 
Bearing  the  snows  ere  yet  the  misty  town 
Awakes,  to  cool  the  spiced  wines,  and  drown 

The  city's  thirst  when  noon  its  vengeance  wreaks. 

Bells  through  Granada  —  where  the  market  train 
From  off  the  Vega  through  the  gateway  pours 
With  melons  green  and  gold,  and  sacks  of  grain, 
And  noisy  poultry  on  each  creaking  wain, 
And  swarthy  herdsmen  leading  in  their  stores. 
[41] 


Throughout  the  Zocatin  the  merchants  start 
To  drape  the   booths  with  damasks,  rugs,  and 

lace; 

Ranging  their  sweets  and  scents  with  subtle  art, 
Their  potteries  and  brasses,  till  the  mart 
Gleams  in  the  sunlight  with  its  festal  grace. 

There  old  Mosaden  from  the  Syrian  lands 

Outspreads  his  gems;    black  Kassim  from  Tan- 

giers, 

His  dirks  and  spurs ;  there  trading  gipsy  bands 
From  Malaga  and  Ronda  range  their  stands, 

And    match    their    horses    'gainst    some    proud 
Emir's. 

Now  through  the  fevered  crowd  the  Cadi  rides 

In  search  of  pearls  to  grace  Jarifa's  breast ; 
Now  for  some  Berber  chief  the  throng  divides, 
Now  for  some  santon,  or  the  Agha's  brides 

Swathed  in  their  veils  upon  some  childish  quest. 

Pilgrim  and  priest  and  silk-screened  litter  pass, 
And   horsemen    galloping   careless    through    the 

throngs ; 

Beggar  and  slave  whose  sad  eyes  speak.     "Alas;" 
Merchant  and  thief  and  cut-throat,  in  the  mass 
That  struggles  round  to  hear  the  snake-girls'  songs. 
[42] 


Till  hark,—  o'er  all  the  City  of  the  Kings, 
From  Bibarrambla  to  Genii's  last  shores, 

Once  more  the  noontide  "Allah,  Allah!"  rings; 

And  as  the  spirit  cry  to  heaven  upwings, 
Granada  —  in  a  sudden  hush  —  adores. 

(2) 
THE  RIDER  OF  THE  SNOWS 

As  through  Alhambra's  silvered  garden  floats 
A  serenade  that  stills  the  nightbird  throats, 
Zorayah,  stealing  from  the  Sultan's  breast, 
Dreams  at  the  lattice  of  a  voice  loved  best. 

"  Out  o'er  the  mountains,  0  Sultana,  haste  ! 

Fond  arms  shall  clasp  thee  'neath  my  cloak  of 

snows  ; 
Kisses  of  fire  thy  lips  and  mine  shall  taste, 

Beyond  the  mountains  ere  the  dawn  shall  close" 

Down  through  Granada,  hark,  there  comes  the  beat 
Of  hurrying  hoofs  along  the  sacred  street, 
Where,  mid  the  lamps  like  stars  at  Allah's  throne 
Pale  Abu-Edriz  guards  the  mosque  alone. 

"  Out  o'er  the  mountains,  holy  sheikh,  be  gone, 
So  thou  mayst  find  thy  fountain  of  desires  ; 
[43] 


The  snows  shall  breathe  their  peace  thy  soul  upon ; 
The  stars  console  thee  with  anointed  fires." 

Now  turns  that  midnight  rider  swift  and  keen 
Among  the  alleys  of  the  Zocatin ; 
But  none  of  all  the  merchants  hears  him  call 
Save  old  Soleiman  huddled  in  his  stall. 

"  Out  o'er  the  mountains,  hoarder ,  ere  the  day 
Shall  set  the  sapphire  minarets  agleam; 

Seal  up  thy  little  booth,  cast  scrip  away, 
At  dawn  I  lead  thee  to  the  golden  stream." 

And  ere  muezzin-call  three  shadows  gray 
Haste  out  the  gate  upon  the  mountain  way, 
Till  by  the  well  their  shrouded  guide  takes  breath, 
Brushing  the   snows  from  off  the  stone  marked 
"Death." 

(3) 
ON  THE  MARGIN  OF  A  KORAN 

At  dawn  and  twilight  angels  pure  ascend 
To  Allah ;  thronging  up  the  outmost  sky 

Their  myriad  wings  of  rose  and  azure  blend 

Beneath  the  Emerald  throne  of  Him  Most-High. 
[44] 


At  morn  they  bear  the  night's  dread  reckoning ; 

Its  sins  of  rapine,  blood,  and  mad  delights ; 
Its  meed  of  mercy,  prayer,  and  suffering, 

On  pinions  shimmering  up  the  eastern  heights. 

And  when  the  sun  is  vanished  and  the  day 
Of  man's  desert  and  blame  is  harvested, 

Silent  with  burthened  breasts  they  soar  away 
In  sunset  fire  to  Allah's  Scales  of  Dread. 

So,  —  saith  the  Prophet,  —  are  the  sins  forgiven, 
The  doom  ordained,  for  Allah's  foes  and  friends. 

O  Angels,  Angels !  ere  ye  fade  in  heaven 

Bear  up  this  prayer  my  heart  for  Leila  sends. 

(4) 
ALHAMBRA  FEAST 

What  little  shrine  keeps  festival  to-day 
That  to  Alhambra  all  the  town  makes  way? 
For  since  the  dawn  the  clink  of  harness  bells, 
The  hum  of  lutes,  the  spice  and  flowery  smells, 
And  trail  of  silks  go  by.     Good  passer,  say 
What  mosque,  what  shrine  keeps  festival  to-day  ? 

No  mosque,  nor  shrine,  0  thou  of  sightless  eyes ; 
'Twas  Leila  passed,  Ibn-Yussufs  lovely  prize, 
For  whom  this  morn  his  royal  feast  is  spread. 
[45] 


'Twas  she  whose  gold  thine  outstretched  hands  hath 

fed, 

Who  bent  to  soothe  thee  with  her  gentle  sighs  — 
Thrice-blessed  hadgi  of  the  sightless  eyes  ! 

Nay,  wherefore  then  was  Allah's  light  erased, 
And  His  blind  slave  so  near  Alhambra  placed  ? 
For  hark,  —  beyond  the  songs  of  stream  and  bird, 
The  castanets,  the  silvered  timbrels  heard !  — 
Close  to  Thy  bounty's  threshold  have  I  traced,^ — 
Yet  wherefore,  Allah,  was  Thy  light  erased ! 

(5) 
THE  RIVER  SONG 

There  came  as  tribute  out  of  far  Bagdad 

Unto  Alhambra  once  a  minstrel  lad 

Who  all  day  long  touched  softly  on  the  strings 

The  river  song  the  Tigris  boatman  sings. 

A  sun-bronzed  slave  who  toiled  among  the  flowers 

O'erheard  a  sob  from  the  Sultana's  bowers, 

And  whispered,  —  "  Minstrel    wake  that   note   no 

more; 

She  too  in  childhood  knew  our  Asian  shore ; 
Fair  is  Alhambra,  —  but  by  pool  or  dome, 
Sing  here  no  more  that  song  of  youth  and  home." 
[46] 


(6) 
IN  THE  STREET  OF  THE  DANCERS 

Not  a  lamp  in  Leila's  tower 
By  the  stream  of  Darro  glows, 

Though  the  firefly  gloats  in  power 
Through  Granada  o'er  the  rose ; 

Days  and  nights  have  feasters  sought  her 

But  her  gate  beside  the  water 

Heeds  not  songs,  nor  pleas,  nor  blows. 

And  they  say  the  proud  Vizier 

In  Alhambra's  halls  above 
Counts  each  absent  day  a  year, 

Stricken  down  with  rage  and  love ; 
That  the  poet  Giaffir,  sighing 
Vainly,  at  her  lattice  trying 

Sends  his  message-laden  dove. 

Vainly  waits  her  idle  lute 

At  the  dancing  booths  of  yore ; 

Drum  and  cymbal,  gong  and  flute, 
Know  her  twinkling  feet  no  more ; 

All  along  the  Street  of  Dancers 

Not  an  echo  wakes  but  answers 
To  the  watchers  at  her  door. 
[47] 


Hark,  the  Lord  of  Tunis  sings 
From  the  bridge  beneath  her  wall, 

While  his  slaves  on  gittern  strings 
Strike  a  Bedouin  madrigal : 

"  Shall  the  thorns  that  wound  the  lover 

Ne'er  the  hidden  rose  discover  — 
Are  the  wounds  of  Love  its  all?" 

Soon  the  reddening  minaret 
Wafts  afar  the  prayers  of  morn ; 

But  she  waits  one  voice  that  yet 
Keeps  her  weeping,  pale  and  worn,  — 

His,  the  shepherd-chief  who  flies  her, 

Whose  proud  comeliness  defies  her, 
Who  destroys  her  with  his  scorn  — 

For  Charles  Seidler  Adams. 


[48] 


THE  AUTUMN  KINGS 

fTIHERE  sweeps  a  haughty  wind  amid  the  trees 
-•-    With  blare  as  when  imperial  brows  are  crowned 
In  lofty  sanctuaries ; 

And  as  the  bannered  legions  shout  on  high, 
So  the  deep  forests  cry 
Acclaim  portentous  back  to  heaven 
And  fling  their  golden  largess  to  the  ground. 
Phantoms  mysterious  surge  by 
Amid  the  sumach's  gusty  levin ; 
Some  cloaked  as  if  in  dreams  profound, 
Some  with  their  brows  enshrined  with  a  star 
To  match  the  pearly  plummet  'gainst  the  sky. 
Adown  the  orchard-scented  air 
They  trail  with  purple  wear 
Madid  as  with  the  vineyards'  gore 
And  maple  drips  afar. 

"What  ho !"  —  we  hail  them,  and  in  echoed  flight 
Our  voices  down  the  startled  valleys  pour,  — 
"What  ho !  ye  stealthy  majesties  that  take 
The  pathways  of  the  shadowy  brake 
Whence  none  returneth  more,  — 
Stay,  —  'tis  the  fall  of  night !" 
Hush,  a  voice  waves  back  at  last : 
"Have  not  the  shepherds  passed?"  — 
E  [49] 


We  can  but  answer,  "  Yea,  the  foolish  wights 

Would  hear  a  singing  in  the  nights 

And  so  fared  after ;  though  the  air 

Holds  selfsame  music  everywhere 

With  our  reverting  springs. 

But  ye  ?  —  what  Caesars  or  high  lords 

Are  ye  ?  "  —  Then  thundering  from  far 

Their  voice  —  as  when  the  shields  are  lashed  with 

swords  — 

"We  are  the  Autumn  Kings !  — 
Laggards  —  have  ye  not  seen  the  Star  ?  " 

For  T.  J.  Murray 


[50] 


ROAD  SONGS  FROM  THE  ARMENIAN 

(1) 
TITHENCE  art  thou,  Water?    What  melodious 

spring 

Hath  sent  thee  murmuring  ? 
All  through  the  vales  thy  rustling  we  o'erhear 
E'en  though  thou  disappear.  - 
How  well  I  know !  —  thou  art  some  amorous  wight 
Who  sleepless  day  and  night 
Art  wandering  faint  from  land  to  land  to  trace 
Thy  loved  one's  hiding  place. 

(2) 
Behold  I  gathered  mine  offences 

And  wept  their  weighty  pack  upon ; 
The  caravan  is  off  for  heaven 

So  I  must  take  them  and  be  gone. 
"And  whither  goest  thou  so  laden?" 

The  Angel  asks  me  in  disdain,  — 
"Think'st  thou  with  such  unwieldy  bundle 

The  mart  of  Paradise  to  gain?" 


[51] 


A  WREATH  FOR  SHAKESPEARE 

Read  before  The  Shakespeare  Club  of  New  York, 
April,  23,  1912 

1  THIS  an  unweeded  garden"  —  yet  it  grows, 

-•-      This  world  of  ours  to-day  as  other  days, 
Its  wreath  for  you  of  an  immortal  rose, 
Of  faith,  and  love,  great  Shakespeare,  and  of  praise. 

To-day  no  ranker  in  its  growth,  than  when 
It  gave  you  birth  amid  embattled  gates, 

And  trumpetings  of  serfs  who  strove  as  men, 
In  face  of  greedy  dolts,  and  scoffing  fates ; 

You  —  the  white  flower  of  morning  on  that  pool 
Whose  turbid  waters  drained  the  tears  and  slime 

From  out  an  age  imperial  whose  rule, 
For  all  its  wrongs,  yet  gilds  the  peaks  of  Time !  — 

You  —  the  full  rose  of  England's  moulded  heart, 
Of  Saxon  stem,  of  Norman  leaf  and  thorn, 

Of  Celtic  petal,  —  you,  whose  soul  and  art, 
Though  day  wears  on,  are  pure  as  at  the  morn  I 

They  say  —  the  hawkers  in  our  market-place  — 
That  you,  outworn,  are  buried  in  the  past ; 
[52] 


That  new  evangels,  newer  forms,  efface 
The  honest,  human  mouldings  you  have  cast ; 

That  man  has  changed,  his  heart's  desire  is  new,  — 
That  death  and  life  to  newer  terms  have  come,  — 

That  health  and  right  should  count  no  more  of  you ; 
They  bid  you  to  your  niche  amid  the  dumb. 

Pity  our  chaos  and  our  little  scribes, 

Calm  Prospero ;  we  flounder  on  Life's  tide, 

Mistaking  false  and  real,  truths  and  gibes, 
Mocking  art's  compass,  yet  without  a  guide ! 

But  ever,  while  there  is  a  hand  to  hold 
The  reins  upon  the  steeds  of  passion,  while 

There  is  a  head  to  lift  its  temples  cold 
Amid  the  caldron  fumes  of  pride  and  guile ; 

While  there  be  souls  that  gently  love,  —  strong  men 
Of  tenderness  unshamed,  too  wise,  too  young 

For  greed,  —  shall  you  have  wreaths  and  wreaths 

again,  — 
Prophet  and  Gospel  of  our  English  tongue ! 


[53] 


THE  COLLOQUY  OF  BRIDE 

From  "The  Book  of  Kildara" 

"  (~\  YE  that  journey  down  the  silent  night 

^     Amid  the  grazing  of  the  kine,  make  pause 
And  say  how  Bride  doth  keep  the  Whitsun  Feast 
Upon  her  hill  of  prayer?"  —  It  was  the  voice 
Some  lonely  herdsman  of  the  Curragh  raised ; 
She  bidding  her  bright  chariot  stay,  drew  back 
Her  veil  that  silvered  in  the  moon,  and  spoke ;  — 
"  Bride's  heart  holds  feasting  for  the  King  of  Kings ; 
With  Martyrs  fair,  and  Hermits  meekly  ranged 
At  Jesu's  side,  —  with  Maries  Three,  and  Sons 
Of  Penance,  Druids  of  the  Gospels,  Scribes, 
And  all  who  strike  the  strings  and  blow  the  reeds 
Through    heaven,  —  Yea,  herder  of   the   Curragh 

flocks,  — 

She  spreads  them  there  the  Viands  of  Belief 
And  sinlessness ;  her  vessels,  Charity  ; 
And    one    great    bowl    of    Meekness    and    Good- 
Cheer—" 

He  sighed ;  —  "0  silken-spoken  stranger,  would 
Mine  eyes  might  see  that  feasting!"  —  Yet  was 

Bride 

Unheeding,  for  the  dawn  had  touched  the  hills ;  — 
"  Again  thou  com'st,  thou  silver  tide  of  God ! 
[54] 


Be  glad,"  she  called,  "ye  spear-ranged  woods  and 

heights ! 

Over  the  ancient  tombs  let  knees  be  bent,  — 
Over  the  chalices  be  trembling  hands ! 
Now  turns  the  serf  his  furrows ;  o'er  his  scroll 
The  brehon  ponders ;  youths  are  at  their  feats 
Of  arms ;  the  chieftain  enters  down  his  hall 
And  bids  the  henchmen  portion  forth  his  alms. 
Were  I  the  lark,  or  e'en  the  poorest  flower 
To  hail  thee,  Light  of  Blessings  — "  Then  out-spoke 
Her  novice  Dara :  "Mother,  stay  thy  joy ; 
The  herdsman's  eyes  are    blind;    and  see,  they 

weep — " 

And  sudden  at  the  word  a  surge  swept  up 
The  heart  of  Bride ;  her  wild  imploring  hands 
Were  clutched  to  heaven.    Then  crying  out,  he  saw. 

For  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wilfred  Meynell. 


[55] 


MAID  MARION  WEDS 

From  Tristan  Klingsor,  to  the  Music  of  Pierne 

11/TESSIRE  the  King,  upon  your  palfrey  nearing 
-*-*-*-  Our  hamlet-fold,  would  you  the  news  be  hear 
ing?— 

At  dawn  will  Marion  the  shepherdess 
Put  on  her  little  bridal  dress, 
And  to  the  call  of  pipe  and  string  and  reed 
Unto  Saint-Jean-o'Woods  will  gay  proceed 
To  wed  the  swineherd  —  so  they  tell  — 
Of  Jean  Monseigneur  de  Nivelle.  — 
Make  ready,  pretty  rustics,  in  your  best,  — 
All  who  would  win  our  shepherd  gallants  dressed 
In  ribbon  and  in  bell !  — 
But  you,  Messire  the  King,  —  Monseigneur  Jean  — 

I  pray 

Within  your  turrets  and  your  terracing 
Afar  delay ! 

No  tidings  feign  to  know  of  it, 
Spite  of  the  flutes  and  blow  of  it, 
That  in  the  dawn  our  Marion 
Is  wedding  'neath  the  boughs  of  old  Saint- Jean  !  — 
Messire  the  King,  upon  your  palfrey  nearing 
The  hamlet-fold,  ah,  feign  you  are  not  hearing, 
Messire  the  King ! 

[56] 


AT  THE  MANGER'S  SIDE 

T  AM  Balthasar,  sovereign  where  the  Nile 

-•"   Winds  over  Egypt  by  the  palms  and  sands, 
Temples  and  sphinxes  waiting  Thy  commands 

Adown  the  ages  in  a  deathless  smile. 

Thee  would  our  priests  with  fire  and  bloodshed  style 
A  "God  of  Terrors,"  yet  the  mummies'  hands 
Held  fast  the  scarab  so  that  shadow-lands 

Of  death  might  know  Thou  didst  but  bide  the  while  ! 

Thus  for  Thy  Kingship  did  I  snatch  the  gold 

From  grim  Osiris'  brow,  that  night  the  Star 
For  which  Chaldea's  sages  pined  of  old 

Proclaimed  Thy  birth ;  and  trusting  in  the  sign, 
Come  I  to  seek  Thee  on  the  hills  afar, 

To  yield  Fear's  broken  sovereignty  to  Thine  I 

Behold  me  —  Gaspar  of  the  Isles  of  Greece  — 
Before  Thy  feet  anointed  I  Thou  didst  call 
Our  souls  to  dream  of  Thee  by  waterfall 

And  snow-strewn  mount,  and  purple  vale  of  peace. 

Out  where  our  sea-flocks  comb  their  silver  fleece 
Against  a  thousand  isles  marmoreal 
We  raised  to  Thee  our  temple  columns  tall 

Where  sacrifice  and  paean  should  not  cease. 
[57] 


What  though  the  Phidian  stone  or  ivory  heard 
The  cry  our  barren  hearts  sent  up  to  Thee, 

Yet  did  we  treasure  every  Delphic  word 
And  ply  the  sibyls  in  Thine  augury. 

Such  was  our  homage  till  yon  pure  Star  stirred 
Before  me  bearing  incense  o'er  the  sea. 

They  crowned  me  —  Melchior  —  where  the  Ganges 

rolls 

By  gilded  shrines  and  cities  to  the  sea, 
There  where  the  death-pyres  burn  eternally 

And  saints  and  sages  lacerate  their  souls. 

Through  scorn  of  love  and  hate  their  will  controls 
Earth's  rebel  senses ;  naught  of  worth  can  be 
Save  full  absorption  in  the  life  of  Thee, 

Their  Lamp  consuming  o'er  the  deeps  and  shoals. 

Thou  dost  confound  the  dreaming  of  our  seers, 

Thou  who  in  human  guise,  not  flame,  wouldst  bring 
Our  world  Thy  message  of  its  precious  tears, 

Its  humblest  service  angel- winged  with  thought. 
So  hither  unto  Thee,  O  Saviour,  —  King,  — 
And  Brother,  —  lo,  the  myrrh  adoring  brought ! 


[58] 


EGIDIO  OF  COIMBRA  —  1597  A.D. 


rumor  came  to  Frei  Egidio 
In  cloistered  Santa  Cruz,  that  out  of  Spain 
King  Philip's  secret  courier  had  fared 
With  orders  under  seal  suspending  all 
The  Statutes  of  Coimbra  that  controlled 
The  contests  for  the  professorial  chairs, 
And  ordering  the  Faculty  to  grant 
Padre  Francisco  Suarez  primacy 
Among  the  masters  theological. 
And  Frei  Egidio,  whose  ancient  name 
Fonseca  was  relinquished  when  at  court 
It  shone  its  brightest,  who  had  ceaseless  toiled 
His  score  of  years  in  cloister  and  in  schools, 
Unravelling  knotty  texts,  disputing  long 
With  monk  and  doctor  of  the  Carmelites, 
Dominicans  and  Trinitarians, 
Consulting  with  the  students,  visiting, 
Fawning,  and  banqueting  —  himself  and  all 
His  faction  in  the  University  — 
Now  in  the  iron  mandate  from  Madrid 
Saw  failure  blight  his  hopes,  and  Santa  Cruz 
Eclipsed,  through  imposition  unforeseen 
Of  Suarez  de  Toledo  —  only  half 
A  monk  !  —  a  fledgling  doctor  in  the  Schools  !  — 
[59] 


And  Frei  Egidio  unsleeping  schemed 
To  check  the  rising  of  this  Spanish  star 
Within  Coiimbra,  —  and  his  henchmen  went 
Stealthy  and  sure  to  sow  malignant  seed 
To  choke  the  Hapsburg's  new  autocracy. 
Stately  was  Frei  Egidio,  robust, 
Swarthy  and  smooth  his  cheek ;  his  raven  locks 
Piling  about  his  tonsure  in  a  crown. 
Dark  flashed  his  eye  whene'er  he  rose  to  cast 
His  syllogistic  spear  across  the  lists, 
Where  many  a  mighty  crest  Minerva-crowned 
Was  forced  to  yield,  or  learnt  the  rapier  thrust 
Of  his  distinguo  and  non-sequitur. 
Still  more  he  shone  when  in  procession  moved 
The  doctors,  masters,  and  licentiates, 
With  tufted  caps,  and  rainbow  gowns,  and  stoles, 
And  ring,  and  book  across  the  steeps  and  squares, 
While  gallant  youths  pressed  round  on  horse  or  foot 
Holding  his  robe  or  stirrup  through  the  town  — 
The  Catedrdtico  da  Vespera. 
But  now  this  little  shrivelled  man  sent  out 
From  Salamanca,  —  Philip's  paragon !  — 
To  rule  Coimbra  in  theology !  — 
One  of  Loyola's  strange  and  restless  band 
In  the  Collegio  de  Jesus,  —  reproach 
To  every  gorgeous  doctor  in  the  halls. 
[60] 


'Twas  true  he  hid  away  within  his  house, 
Came  seldom  to  the  festivals  or  Acts, 
Nor  oft  asserted  his  high  presidence 
O'er  Frei  Egidio  —  in  craft  or  scorn, 
It  mattered  not  —  for  Frei  Egidio 
Would  pluck  him  forth ;  no  signet  of  the  King 
Could  serve  him  here ;  the  doctors  of  the  Schools 
Should  learn  how  he,  Fonseca,  had  been  wronged. 
With  formal  placards  soon  they  smeared  the  walls 
Of  shrine  and  college,  telling  day  and  hour 
And  place,  where  Doutor  Frei  Egidio 
Da  Presentacao,  of  the  Eremites 
Of  Sao  Agostinho,  titular 
Da  Vespera,  would  his  conclusions  hold 
"  De  Voluntario  et  Involuntario" 
Against  all-comers,  and  imprimis  there, 
The  Doutor  Padre  Sodrez,  titular 
Da  Prima  of  Coimbra,  theologue 
Of  the  Collegia  and  Compama 
De  Jesijis.    From  near  and  far  they  came, 
And  took  their  stated  rank,  and  filed 
Into  the  Hall  of  Acts ;  the  Chancellor 
And  Rector  in  their  robes  of  silk,  and  fur, 
And  velvet,  and  great  chains  and  seals  of  state ; 
The  Bishop,  and  Inquisitor,  and  Dean, 
And  Chapter,  in  their  purple ;  Canonists 
[61] 


In  green ;  and  Jurists  in  their  scarlet  gowns ; 
Frei  Luiz  of  the  Chair  of  Holy  Writ, 
In  black  and  white  of  the  Dominicans ; 
Frei  Manoel  of  the  Chair  of  Scotus,  garbed 
In  white  and  brown  of  Carmel ;  titulars 
In  Peter  Lombard  and  Durandus,  —  sons 
Of  Bernard,  Francis,  and  Saint  Benedict. 
When  each  in  order  of  his  ancientry 
Was  seated  in  the  tribune,  and  below 
Ranged  the  licentiates,  and  bachelors, 
And,  out  beyond,  the  thousand  students,  —  gay 
In  plumes  and  ruffs,  or  rags  and  disrepair,  — 
There  entered  Bacharel  Frei  Constantino 
Citing  the  obligations;  whereupon 
Egidio  began  his  argument 
With  exposition  and  arrangement  clear, 
And  summary  abrupt  and  crushing,  as 
His  old  experience  in  the  courts  had  taught,  — 
So  free  in  tone  and  doctrine  that  the  throng 
Swayed  on  their  benches,  beating  noisily 
Great  tomes  together  like  the  roll  of  drums. 
Then  silence  for  Suarez's  quodlibet; 
As  half-reluctant,  without  emphasis, 
His  cold  unwavering  voice  proposed  the  plan 
Of  his  objection,  —  when  uproarious 
Upon  the  instant,  Frei  Egidio 
[62] 


In  tones  of  thunder  shouted  o'er  the  hall,  — 
"  Nego  majorem  !  "  —  the  scholastic  world's 
Unmitigated  insult !  —  How  would  he, 
Spain's  boasted  theologian,  reply 
To  Portugal's  ?     The  Jesuits  around 
Suarez's  rostrum  marvelled,  whispered,  turned, 
And  hid  their  faces,  when  they  saw  him  bowed 
Silent  a  moment,  ere  descending,  calm, 
He  led  them  home  across  the  jeering  town. 
Then  the  mad  acclamations ;  bells  of  shrine 
And  monastery  on  the  hills ;  the  sweep 
Of  robes  prelatical,  the  cavalcade 
Of  gorgeous  nobles  into  Santa  Cruz ; 
The  blare  of  trumpets,  and  the  lanterns  strung 
Yellow  beneath  the  moon ;  the  beggar  throngs ; 
The  maskers  down  the  lanes ;  the  nightingales 
And  river-songs  of  students  wafted  far 
Across  Mondego's  Hills  of  Loneliness 
And  Meditation  where  Coimbra  slept. 
Thus  triumphed  Frei  Egidio.     But  high 
In  the  Collegio  de  Jesus  the  blow 
Was  red  on  every  cheek ;  the  Rector  rose 
In  the  community  and  said  :   "  Padre 
Francisco,  not  in  fifty  years  have  we 
In  our  Coimbra  known  such  sore  defeat ; 
Tell  me,  I  pray,  had  you  no  thought  to  save 
[63] 


Your  honor  and  the  honor  of  our  schools  — 
You,  boast  of  Rome  and  Salamanca's  halls,  — 
You,  to  whom  all  the  dialectic  arts 
Have  been  as  play  —  could  you  not  parry,  feint, 
Or  bait  Egidio  until  some  chance 
Or  newer  turn  might  save  your  argument?" 
Suarez  bowed  and  answered :   "  Better  far 
That  we  be  humbled  than  a  great  man  fall 
To  utter  shame  and  ruin !    Had  I  told 
Egidio  there  that  in  denying  thus 
My  proposition  he  was  challenging 
A  solemn  canon,  word  for  word,  prescribed 
At  Constance  by  the  Universal  Church  — 
Fetch  me  the  Book  of  Councils  —  he  was  lost." 
Scarce  was  the  secret  spoken,  ere  it  stole 
In  rumor  through  the  novice-hall,  and  thence 
Below  to  Santa  Cruz,  —  stole,  like  a  doud, 
Black,  ominous,  across  the  starlit  dome 
Above  the  proud  mosteiro,  where  the  moon 
Revelled  amid  the  sculptured  lattices,  — 
The  marble  ropes  and  palms  memorial 
Of  old  Da  Gama  and  his  caravels,  — 
Upon  the  rose-paths  and  the  trickling  pools 
Along  the  Cloister  do  Silencio. 
There  paced  Fonseca,  solitary  guest 
To  catch  the  final  crumbs,  the  laughter,  far 
[64] 


Adown   the    stream,    of   lutes   that   mourned   his 

feast, 

When  lo,  a  billet  in  his  path !  —  "Awake,  —" 
He    read,  —  "at    Constance    'twas    decreed.      Thy 

voice 

Hath  mocked  the  very  words  of  Holy  Church."  — 
No  more,  —  yet  in  foreboding  he  made  haste 
To  find  his  taper,  —  fumbled  through  the  stacks 
In  dust  and  chill,  —  unclasped  the  folio 
Liber  Conciliorum,  —  saw  his  doom  — 
Perchance  the  rack  and  Secret  Prisons  —  writ 
Upon  the  parchment !  —  Silence,  mocking  lutes ! 
Come,  rain!    come,  whirlwind!    blot  the  lanterns 

out! 

Now  knew  he  their  insidious  subterfuge  — 
The  slippery  pharisees  —  to  undermine 
Coi'mbra's  last  bright  paragon,  —  they  claimed 
Another  victim !  —  But  his  rage  gave  way 
To    grief;     his    scorn    was    all    to    blame;     no 

scheme 

Was  theirs ;  Suarez  spoke  the  Council's  words 
As  duty  bound  him.  —  With  the  break  of  day 
Came  self -renouncement  to  Egidio ; 
And  in  amaze  to  greet  his  ashen  face 
The  sacristan  laid  out  for  him  the  alb 
And  chasuble  of  Requiem ;  resigned, 
F  [65] 


Like  some  bowed  reed  the  storm  has  swept  by 

night, 

He  took  the  chalice,  veiled  it  'gainst  his  breast, 
And  'mid  the  first  faint  glimmer  down  the  nave 
Crept  forth  unto  his  mystic  Calvary. 
For  Miss  Elizabeth  J.  Farrell. 


[66] 


"QADI 
Olri 


THE  WHITE  RIDER 

SPEAKETH  DEATH: 
ADDLE  me  forth  the  great  white  steed  — 


ride  on  a  mighty  quest  to-day ; 
A  cavalier  of  the  Spanish  breed 
Too  long  hath  mocked  my  sway 1" 

(Crash  of  hoofs  as  the  drawbridge  fell ; 

Clank  of  dread  through  the  courts  and  stair.) 
"Stand  back,  thou  monk,  —  leave  Cross  and  spell 

And  let  him  meet  me  fair !" 

"Don  Roderick,  Master  of  the  Sword 

Of  Santiago,  bend  the  head  — 
You  that  put  down  so  many  a  lord, 

Yield  to  the  lance  of  dread !  " 

SPEAKETH  THE  GRAND  MASTER: 

"Nay,  Death,  thou  menial,  com'st  thou  here 

To  play  the  haughty  foe  with  me  ? 
Throw  off  that  visor  —  have  no  fear, 

Old  Roderick  breaks  no  lance  with  thee 

"But  speak  thy  message,  nor  delay 

To  bear  my  carcass  to  the  clod ; 
Whilst  thou  art  trudging  on  the  way 

My  soul  shall  spur  to  God." 
[67] 


IN  THE  VICEROY'S  GARDEN 

Penha  Verde,  Cintra,  1911 

ONE  is  he  who  bore  the  thunder 

Of  Braganza's  kings  afar ; 
Down  the  Indus  worlds  of  wonder 

Lit  their  sceptre  with  his  star ; 
Gone  —  so  Day's  last  pageant  moulders  • 
Gone  the  swarthy,  bleeding  shoulders 

Golden-laden  round  his  car. 
Moonlight  on  his  pools  and  basins, 

And  the  shadow  of  a  rose. 
Down  the  cypress  cliffs  there  hastens 

Water  glamorous  as  those 
Cynthia  loosed  from  off  the  mountains 
Here  where  mosses  hushed  the  fountains 

For  Endymion's  repose. 
Nightingales,  whose  breast  remembers 

Loves  so  rare  as  these, 
Round  the  roofless  temple  embers, 

Tiled  kiosks,  and  druid  trees, 
With  a  wilder  sob  are  shaken 
Where  the  Viceroy's  halls  forsaken 

Echo  still  his  far  decrees. 
All  his  spices,  plumes,  and  treasure,  — 

Could  they  match  the  sheathing  moss 
[68] 


O'er  his  threshold  ?  —  could  they  measure 

Aught  to  put  this  rose  to  loss  ?  — 
Where  his  carven  trophies  glory 
Tn  their  crumbling,  Sanscrit  story, 
And  its  petals  fall  across. 


[69] 


AFTER  THE  RAIN 

A  LL  day  the  rain  came  ceaseless  down, 
•*"*  But  now  'tis  evening  soothes  the  town ; 
The  skies  and  little  streets  are  clear, 
The  lamps  and  stars  seem  strangely  near. 

It  seems  as  though  some  lovely  face 
Has  brushed  away  the  old  tears'  trace, 
And  sweeter  grown  than  e'er  before 
Returns  to  guard  our  lonely  door. 


[70] 


GEORGETOWN  REVISITED 

On  the  125th  Anniversary,  1914 

TT7E  too  in  those  old  years  agone 
Took  sword  and  countersign 
For  Camelot  and  Ascalon 

And  Compostela's  shrine ; 
Your  loving  scrip,  and  last  behest, 

Your  eyes  to  guide  our  way, 
Your  scapular  upon  our  breast, 

Mother,  —  as  these  to-day. 

The  white  plumes  on  the  field  sink  down 

'Mid  battles  half-begun ; 
The  chimes  fall  faint  from  the  pilgrim  town 

Beyond  the  setting  sun. 
What  shall  the  morrow  bring  ?  —  what  shrine, 

What  laurel  or  what  grave  ?  - 
Nay,  speak  once  more  your  charge  divine, 

Mother,  —  and  make  us  brave. 

Mother,  our  Mother,  Georgetown,  see 

Your  elder  sons  return 
With  scars  of  toils  and  victory 

Against  your  breast  to  learn  ! 
We  greet  you  by  your  ancient  gates, 

O  brows  more  silvery  fair ! 
[71] 


And  find  your  eyes  still  dreaming  fates 

And  promise  holier  there. 
One  arm  enclasps  us,  one  leads  forth 

Your  younger  sons,  new-shod 
For  hallowed  ways  of  south  and  north, 

Mother,  —  by  grace  of  God ! 


[72] 


LA  PRECIOSA 

the  marches  of  Pamplona  —  out  to  sun  and 
wind  and  star  — 

Lift  the  airy  spires  and  turrets  of  the  kings  of  old 
Navarre, 

Where  the  endless  dirge  is  chanted  o'er  their  alabas 
ter  tombs, 

And  the  canons  drowse  in  scarlet  'mid  the  incense 
and  the  glooms. 

Daily  came  the   little  goatherd  Mariquita,   lithe, 
brown, 

Through  the  dusty  gates  to  jangle  with  her  flock 
across  the  town, 

Lounging  barefoot  through  the  alleys  and  the  squares 
at  milking  hour, 

Calling  shrilly  round  the  doorway  and  the  cloister 
by  the  tower. 

There  amid  the  ancient  portal  blazoned  o'er  with 
angels  rare 

Sculptured  stands  La  Preciosa  crowned  upon  her 
dais  fair, 

Whilst  upon  her  breast  The  Infant  turns  with  smil 
ing  eyes  to  look 

On  the  lesson  she  is  reading  in  her  graceful  little 
book. 

[73] 


There  the  tousled  country  urchin  used  to  come  and 

shout  in  play  — 
"Mary,  Mary,  neighbor  Mary,  —  watch  the  Child 

while  I'm  away."  — 
When  —  so  read  the   Chapter  annals  —  from  the 

stone  would  come  reply 
With  a  gentle  nod  of  greeting,  —  "  Mariquita  dear, 

good-by." 
Till  the  Canon  Don  Arnaldo,  passing  when  his  mass 

was  o'er, 
Heard  that  banter  so  unseemly  at  La  Preciosa's 

door, 
Little  knowing  in  his  wisdom  that  the  Virgin  meek 

and  mild 
Answered  through  the  stony  image  to  the  greeting 

of  the  child. 
"When  again  you  pray  Our  Lady,  cease,"  he  said, 

"your  idle  sport; 
Kneel  as  though  the  queen  or  duchess  passed  you  on 

her  way  to  court ; 
Clasp  your  hands  and  bend  your  forehead  as  more 

humble  words  you  say, 
Such  as  —  'Heavenly  Queen  and  Empress,  House 

of  Gold,  to  thee  I  pray'"  — 

Mindful    of    the    solemn    lesson    Mariquita    half- 
afraid, 

[74] 


Ever  as  the  good  old  Canon  taught  her,  clasped  her 

hands,  and  prayed ; 
Bowed   in   rustic    salutation,    ended   with   a  long 

Amen, — 
But  in  stone  the  Virgin  listened,  —  never  smiled 

nor  spoke  again. 

For  Frederick  S.  Hoppin. 


[75] 


THE  PARTING 

HP!  HOUGH  it  was  spring  and  in  the  land 
-*•    Of  roses  and  the  sun, 
Fate  in  a  moment  tore  us  hand  from  hand 
And  said  the  dream  was  done ; 

Never  to  know  the  fullness  of  the  year, 

The  sweet  alternate  burthens  of  the  days,  — 

To  share  no  more  in  smile  or  tear,  — 

We  turned  confused  on  unreturning  ways. 

You  unto  friends  and  comradeship  afar, 

To  take  and  give  what  tenderness  they  knew; 

And  I  to  know  what  consolations  are 

With  them  who  dream  not  what  I  was  to  you. 

Through  all  the  summertide, 

Across  the  wastes  of  starlight  and  of  noon, 
It  was  for  you  my  being  cried  — 

For  want  of  you  all  life  fell  out  of  tune. 

My  arm  unstrengthened  by  the  thought 
Of  you  went  forth  unto  the  gleaning ; 

The  laughter  of  the  vineyards  only  brought 
A  joy  unmeaning. 

[76] 


Ask  not  my  paths,  if  there  shall  be  a  morrow 

Our  eyes  can  meet ; 
I  have  been  far  in  caravans  of  sorrow, 

Nor  shall  the  tale  repeat. 


[77] 


THE  HIDING  OF  THE  GRAAL 

"VTIGHT  and  the  winter  blast,  and  out  afar 

Upon  the  wastes  a  paladin  grown  gray 
In  rusted  armor,  seared  with  toil  and  scar, 
Fared  with  a  lagging  bridle  on  his  way. 

His  deep  eyes  fixed  in  space ;  his  only  guide 
The  worn  steed's  search  for  herbage  o'er  the  plain ; 

With  pallid  lips  and  fallen  breast  he  sighed, 

"The  Graal !— The  Holy  Graal,  —  I  seek  in  vain ! " 

"My  dreams  of  youth,  —  this  faithful  arm  that 
smote 

The  f oeman  of  the  Cross,  —  my  body  worn 
With  fast  and  pilgrimage  by  shrines  remote,  — 

My  manhood  withered  on  a  quest  forlorn !"  — 

Then  from  the  darkness  one  arose  beside 

His  stirrup,  stretching  forth  with  empty  palms. 

"  Alas,  poor  Leper,  without  purse  I  ride,  — 
I  seek  The  Graal,  as  thou  art  seeking  alms." 

"  Sir  Knight,  we  fare  upon  a  holy  quest, 
But  grant  me  water,  for  at  last  I  fail  — " 

He  loosed  his  gourd ;  against  the  Leper's  breast 
Sudden  he  saw  it  gleam,  —  it  was  The  Graal. 
[78] 


THE  FORGES  OF  THE  SUN 

The  Grand  Canon  of  Colorado 

A  S  in  the  furnace  depths  of  geni-land 
•^      The  molten  sparks  from  off  the  anvils  blow, 
Adown  the  Canon  now  a  brawny  hand 
Upon  the  bellows  sets  the  days  aglow. 

'Tis  Autumn  with  his  sledges  welding  gold 
Of  leaf  and  harvest,  laughing  loud  and  clear 

At  Vulcan  and  his  magic  shields  of  old, 
And  forging  red  the  sunsets  of  the  year. 


[79] 


THE  MAIDS  OF  HONOR 

SCENE  :  the  Studio  of  Velazquez  in  the  Royal  Alcazar 
of  Madrid,  1656. 

DONA  MARCELA  DE  ULLOA: 
(Knocking  and  calling  from  the  outside) 
Senor  Marshal,  —  prithee  turn  the  key ! 
Her  Highness  the  Infanta  is  at  hand ! 

VELAZQUEZ : 
(Perplexed,  putting  down  his  brushes) 

Where  is  my  Juan  Pareja  ?  —  What  an  hour 
To  be  disturbed !  (Opens  the  rear  door;  in  a  burst  of 
sunshine  enter  the  Infanta  Margarita,  Dona 
Agostina  de  Sarmiento,  Dona  Isabel  de  Velasco, 
Dona  Marcela  de  Ulloa  in  nun's  habit,  a  Guar- 
dadamas  or  Lady's  page,  the  Dwarfs  Mari 
Barbola  and  Nicolasico  Pertusato,  and  the  hound 
Nodo.  Tinkles  are  attached  to  the  ladies'  high 
heels.) 

INFANTA  : 

Don  Diego,  I  would  see 

How  you  make  pictures.     (Velazquez  receives  her 
on  one  knee.    She  starts  to  take  the  leather  arm 
chair  in  front  of  his  canvas.) 
[80] 


VELAZQUEZ : 
(Rises  to  prevent  her) 

Nay,  Your  Highness  errs ; 
None  but  his  Majesty  can  seat  him  there ; 
Tis  so  commanded. 

INFANTA  : 
I'll  keep  standing  then. 

DONA  AGOSTINA: 
(First  Maid  of  Honor) 

Tis  better  so,  Your  Highness,  for  the  hour 
Of  your  siesta  is  begun.    We  should  repose. 

INFANTA  : 
No,  I  will  stay  and  watch  the  Senor  paint. 

DONA  ISABEL: 

(Second  Maid  of  Honor) 

What  love  of  art!  —  (affectedly)    Like  her  great 

ancestors, 

The  Philips  and  the  Charles,  you  see  she  grants 
Full  honor  to  your  craft,  good  Don  Diego. 

VELAZQUEZ : 

'Twas  in  this  very  room  of  old  the  great 
Antonio  Moro  painted,  and  likewise 
[81] 


Sanchez-Coello  for  Don  Philip  Second. 
Here  daily  too  our  own  most-artist  King 
Reviews  my  tasks,  instilling  me  with  thought 
As  vast  in  art,  as  in  affairs  of  state. 
He  is  my  world ;  his  the  philosophy 
I  strive  with  here.     I  have  no  business 
Nor  converse  for  the  crowd.     (Aside  to  the  Maids  of 
Honor) 

This  very  hour 

Their  Majesties  are  coming.    You  must  coax 
The  Infanta  to  depart.    You  know  the  rules 
Of  our  Alcazar,  —  as  King's  Marshal,  I 
At  least  must  keep  them  — 

DONA  AGOSTINA: 

The  court  etiquette 
Is  also  our  concern ;  but  all  day  long 
The  Infanta  has  been  restless !  —  dragging  us 
About  the  grounds  and  palace,  rummaging 
Each  room  and  hidden  passage-way.    You  know 
We  dare  no  force  — 

DONA  ISABEL: 

The  dwarfs  are  out  of  hand ; 
Nicolasico  is  a  very  fiend, 
Defeating  every  subterfuge  of  ours 
[82] 


To  tempt  the  Infanta  home.    They  have  indulged 
In  romps  around  the  throne-room ;  climbed  the  towers, 
And  visited  the  ponies  in  the  mews ; 
At  every  moment  there's  a  new  caprice ! 

DONA  MARCELA: 

The  Queen  will  have  the  child  obeyed ; 
Good  Senor-Marshal,  you  must  pardon  us. 

VELAZQUEZ  : 

I  would  consider  you,  for  should  the  King 

Be  out  of  mood,  his  spleen  will  turn  on  us, 

Not  on  the  Infanta.    Haste  to  get  her  forth; 

He  came  upon  the  minute  yesterday, 

And  should  the  Queen  have  kept  him  waiting  now 

'Tis  we  shall  answer  for  it !    I  am  bid 

To  tend  them  here  alone,  —  You  see,  my  work 

Is  almost  done.  — 

DONA  MARCELA: 

(Turning  with  the  others  to  mew  his  painting) 
A  marvel !    And  most  like 
Of  any  you  have  made ! 

DONA  ISABEL: 

The  first  to  show 
Their  Majesties  together ! 

[83] 


INFANTA : 

(Leaving  the  dwafs  and  hound) 

0  Senor, 

What  pretty  face  you  give  the  Queen !    And  look, 
Nicolasico,  —  there's  my  father  too ' 

NICOLASICO  : 
(Drawing  himself  up  proudly) 

A  mighty  King  say  I ;  when  I  am  old 
I  shall  be  just  like  him !  — 

GUARD  AD  AMAS  : 

Be  silent,  dwarf ; 

The  King  is  close  at  hand.    And  do  not  tease 
The  hound  when  he  is  drowsy,  you  forget, 
He  sometimes  knocks  you  down. 

DONA  MARCELA: 
(To  Marl  Barbola) 

Come,  Mari,  haste. 

You've  seen  the  picture  quite  enough,  I  think ! 
At  home  there's  cinnamon  and  chocolate. 
[84] 


MARI  BARB  OLA 
(After  a  long  stare) 

Think  you,  sweet  Dofia  Agostina,  now ; 
Why  should  not  I  arrange  my  hair  like  that 

(Pointing  at  Queen's  portrait) 
And  be  as  pretty  as  the  rest  of  you  ? 

DONA  AGOSTINA: 
(To  Dona  Isabel) 

Let  not  the  palace  coiffeur  hear  her  talk, 
Or  we  shall  be  eclipsed ! 

VELAZQUEZ : 

Your  chocolate 

I  know  is  waiting,  then  you'll  play  among 
The  flower  beds  where  there  are  butterflies 
Swarming  to-day  all  gold  and  red  and  black  I 

INFANTA  : 

This  morning  we  ran  after  them,  —  but  failed 

(pointing  to  her  Guardainfanta,  or  hoops) 
To  catch  them ! 

[85] 


VELAZQUEZ  : 

You  should  try  the  grotto  then ; 
This  sultry  day  the  fishpools  will  be  cool. 

DONA  AGOSTINA: 

And  there  are  pearly  shells  to  play  with,  brought 
From  out  the  Indies  shores  — 

INFANTA : 

We  played  with  them 
All  yesterday  until  Nicolasico 
And  Mari  took  to  throwing  and  I  cried  — 

DONA  AGOSTINA: 
Your  Highness  now  will  take  your  leave  ? 

GUARDADAMAS  : 

Beware, 
Nicolasico,  or  the  hound  will  snap ! 

VELAZQUEZ : 

Dona  Marcela,  as  you  hope  for  heaven, 

Get  them  away !    The  King  must  be  obeyed ! 

MARI  BARBOLA: 
I  am  so  thirsty  — 

[86] 


DONA  ISABEL: 

Quick  then,  come  and  drink. 
(Takes  the  water  jar  from  Velazquez'  side-table) 
With  your  permission,  good  Senor  — 

VELAZQUEZ  : 

Her  health, 
And  wealth  and  a  handsome  husband ! 

INFANTA : 

No,  let  me  — 

(Attempting  to  snatch  the  jar  from  Mari,  who  indig 
nantly  turns  from  swallowing  the  water  to  push  the 

Infanta) 

DONA  AGOSTINA  1  _ 

Stop !  — 


DONA  ISABEL 

DONA  MARCELA: 

Stop,  I  say  !     Touch  not  Her  Royal  Highness ! 
Give  me  the  jar  — 

INFANTA : 

But  I  am  thirsty  too ! 

DONA  AGOSTINA: 

Within  the  Queen's  Apartment,  you  will  find 
The  fragrant  water  set  for  you  to  drink ; 
Your  Highness,  shall  we  go  ? 
[87] 


DONA  MARCELA: 
(To  Velazquez) 

We  hardly  dare 

To  risk  a  drop  or  morsel  out  of  course, 
Lest  she  be  taken  ill. 

DONA  AGOSTINA: 

Your  Highness,  come ! 

INFANTA : 

Mari  can  drink  whilst  I  go  thirsty !    No, 
I  will  not  stir  until  I  have  my  share. 

VELAZQUEZ  : 

(Aside) 
Santiago !  —  it  is  well  the  King  comes  late ! 

INFANTA : 
Speak,  Senor-Marshal,  say  that  I  may  drink. 

VELAZQUEZ  : 

Your  Highness  knows  the  Queen  has  given  com 
mand 

That  none  should  serve  you  food  and  drink  except 
At  her  appointment. 

[88] 


(Dona  Marcela  is  observed  to  whisper  to  the 
Guardadamas  who  hurriedly  disappears  from 
the  room.) 

INFANTA : 

Then  I'll  go  without, 

And  stay  to  see  the  pictures.    Did  you  paint 
Them  all  yourself,  Don  Diego  ?  —  lovely  ladies 
Bathing  in  the  woods,  and  shepherds  too, 
And  dogs  and  goats  and  flowers  above  the  rest  — 

VELAZQUEZ  : 

Your  Highness,  would  that  I  could  do  so  well ! 
Great  Rubens,  whom  your  grandsire  Don  Carlos 
Commissioned,  painted  their  originals. 

INFANTA : 

Your  new  ones  hardly  are  so  pretty,  yet 
They  look  more  like  the  pictures  I  myself 
Can  see  when  peeping  through  my  fingers  so  — 

VELAZQUEZ  : 

A  test  that  I  approve.     "The  truth,  and  not 
A  picturing"  —  that  is  my  motto  here. 
(Aside  to  Dona  Marcela) 

Your  messenger  delays,  —  the  King  will  come ! 
[89] 


DONA  MARCELA: 
Where  is  the  man  ?  —  Stay,  here  he  is  at  last ! 

GUARD  AD  AMAS  : 

Quick,  —  the  King  is  on  the  secret  stairs ! 

(Guardadamas  drops  on  one  knee,  presenting  the 

golden  salver  and  red  clay  flagon  to  Dona  Marcela) 
The  water  for  Her  Highness. 

DON  JOSE  NIETO: 

The  Queen's  Marshal  (entering  the  door  and  salut 
ing  Velazquez  and  the  ladies) 

I  announce 
The  Royal  Majesties  of  Spain ! 

VELAZQUEZ  : 
(Aside) 

Alas  I 
Then  we  are  lost ! 

DONA  MARCELA: 

(Bowing  on  one  knee  to  Dona  Isabel,  and  present 
ing  the  salver  and  cup) 

The  water  for  Her  Highness. 
[90] 


DONA  ISABEL: 

Quick ! 

(She  bows  on  one  knee  to  Dona  Agostina) 
The  water  for  Her  Highness. 

DON  JOSE  NIETO: 

Hush!  — 
The  King  and  Queen,  — 

(The  mirror  at  the  back  centre  shows  the  reflection  of 
Philip  IV  and  Queen  Mariana,  who  otherwise  do 
not  appear  on  the  scene) 

DONA  AGOSTINA: 

(On  one  knee  offering  the  cup  and  salver  to  the 
Infanta,  as  in  the  painting) 

The  water  for  Her  Highness. 

VELAZQUEZ  : 

(Stepping  backward  as  though  the  monarchs  were 
in  front  of  the  stage,  until  he  strikes  his  posi 
tion  before  the  easel,  as  in  his  painting,  "Las 
Meninas  " ;  then,  as  if  suddenly  inspired) 
Your  Royal  Majesties,  behold,  I  pose 
My  masterpiece  alive  before  your  eyes  !  — 

For  Benjamin  R.  C.  Low. 

[91] 


THE  EMBARKMENT  FOR  CYTHERA 

WHERE  is  Tircis,  slender  swain, 
Now  the  petalled  gloom  is  falling  ? 
Muscadin,  and  pale  Syglaine, 

Whom  the  zephyrs  come  a-calling 
Down  the  vales  and  streams  again  ? 

Are  their  silken  sails  in  vain 
Lifting  for  the  sunset  rivers  ?  — 

Daphne !  Armaryllis !  where 
Now  delaying  ?  —  Venus  quivers 

O'er  Cythera's  rainbow  stair 
Whither  must  their  barges  fare !  — 

WTearied  they  of  lute  and  masking, 
Shepherd  staff,  and  ribboned  air  ? 

Wearied  they  of  lights  and  tasking, 
Rapier,  plume,  and  saraband  ?  — 

"Belle  marquise,  —  thy  little  hand"  — 
(Nay,  'tis  but  a  lily  swaying 

Down  the  purple  meadowland  !  — ) 
"Cher  abbe,  —  (What  old  betraying 

Shadows  yonder  cypress  throws !  — ) 
See,  on  crimson  gusts  of  rose 

One  and  all  away  are  hieing. 
To  Cythera  —  like  to  those 

Dearer  shades  that  left  us  sighing 
Where  the  stream  of  twilight  flows. 
For  George  Holberton  Casamajor. 
[92] 


ZITHER  SONG 

A    LITTLE  world  —  we  truly  say 
•"•  While  days  are  young  and  careless-hearted ; 
From  clime  to  clime  we  speed  to-day, 

Earth's  paths  are  cleared  and  ocean's  charted ; 
But  ah,  how  large  a  world  we  stray 

When  thou  and  I  are  parted ! 

A  fleeting  world  —  as  in  a  dream 

JTis  gone  ere  we  have  paused  and  wondered  I 
Life's  span  is  but  a  firefly  gleam, 

A  chance  half -slept  away,  half  blundered ; 
But  ah,  how  long  the  days  must  seem 

When  our  two  hearts  are  sundered. 


[93] 


TO  A  SONNET  ON  THE  SONNET 

"VTAY,  wouldst  thou  write  a  sonnet  on  the  sonnet, 
-*-^    Full  of  confectionery  charms  like  those 

The  dimpled  poets  pin  upon  the  rose, 
Twining  thy  fancies  as  if  for  a  bonnet, 
And  forcing  the  poor  frowning  muse  to  don  it  ?  — 

Spare  her,  by  heaven,  thy  nodding  plumes  and 
bows ! 

Thou  sayst  the  sonnet  like  a  lily  grows,  — 
Then,  critic,  scorn  not,  —  nor  put  rouge  upon  it ! 

No  jewels  asks  she  for  that  perfect  throat 
But  courtly  airs  wherein  she  may  expand, 

And  sun  the  cheek  that  gods  have  dreamt  upon ; 
But  gird  thee,  if  wouldst  serve  her  cause  remote, 
As  one  who  in  some  alien,  thankless  land 
Tears  down  the  huts  that  hide  a  Parthenon. 


[94] 


THE  BOOK  OF  RIGNALD 

"VTIGHT  on  lona,  —  from  the  north  the  gulls 
-*•'    Come  homing  in  upon  the  sacred  coast 
Where  he  who  as  a  lad  had  cleaved  the  skulls 
Of  Vikings  still  has  lingered  like  a  ghost. 

He  that  was  Rignald  —  now  within  the  cowl 
Of  Colum's  monks  become  an  ancient  scribe,  — 

He  that  had  stalked  and  plundered  through  the 

howl 
Of  many  a  flame-swept  burgh  of  clan  and  tribe. 

From  his  white  casement  many's  the  year  he  heard 
The  springtime  call  him  o'er  the  tossing  sea 

Back  to  the  oldtime  glades  of  deer  and  bird, 
And  wassail  hearths  of  kings  that  used  to  be. 

Whilst  on  the  parchment  of  the  Gospel  Book 

His  brush  has  scrolled  the  margin  with  strange 

flowers ; 

His  thoughts  on  heaven,  —  yet  through  the  pig 
ments  look 

Blue  from  fond  eyes,  and  green  of  sea-mossed 
towers, 

And  tints  of  petalled  cheeks,  and  crimson  caught 
From  lips  long,  long  in  dust !    Each  whorl  of  gold 
[95] 


Enshrines  some  childish  tress ;  each  rubric,  wrought 
In  blood,  atones  for  that  he  shed  of  old. 

Each  great  initial  —  like  some  vestment  clasp 
The  sea-marauders  wrung  from  Orient  lands, 

Crusted  with  gems,  gold-woven  as  an  asp  — 
Gleams  from  the  parchment  warm  beneath  his 
hands. 

But  see,  —  Amen  half-written,  —  down  the  sky 
He  sights  a  Viking  sail  that  hawk-like  veers 

About  God's  dovecote  isle !  —  his  battle-cry 
Hushed  with  a  pang,  he  folds  his  hands,  —  in 
tears. 

For  Miss  Marguerite  Merington. 


[96] 


THE  CANTICLE  OF  FONTEBRAS 

Among  the  nuns  of  Fontebras,  —  they  told  young 

Don  Bivar  — 
Was  come  a  novice  Juana,  who  was  lovely  as  a  star ; 

And  all  the  silver  night  she  heard  the  lute  implore 

and  sing ; 
The  casement  trembled  unto  vows  and  breath  of 

blossoming ; 
Adown  the  glen  the  fireflies  lit  the  jewels  of  a  king. 

But  at  the  grim   portcullis  Christ  in  stone  hung 

sentrywise ; 
What  though  the  gallant  spread  his  cloak,  she  knew 

its  haggard  eyes, 
And  trembling  sank  from  out  his  arms  despite  of 

pleas  and  sighs. 

"O  Thou  upon  the  Cross  "  —  she  moaned,  "do  Thou 

renounce  me  now"  — 
When  bent  the  ancient  stone,  and  smote  her  sharp 

upon  brow, 
Imprinting  there  His  pierced  hand  —  the  token  of 

her  vow. 

H  [97] 


Still  in  the  crypts  of  Fontebras  the  golden  censers 

swing,  — 
Still,  still  the  lark  and  nightingale  by  spire  and 

valley  sing; 

But  at  the  raptured  moment  when  as  to  Suprem- 

est  Grace 
Each  cloistress  lifts  her  forehead  clear  in  Christ's 

espousal  place, 
Alone  the  Sister  Juana  kneels,  the  veil  upon  her 

face 


[98] 


TO  FRANCISCO  GOYA  IN  THE  GALLERY 
OF  MADRID 

rnHEY  fawned  upon  you,  kissed  your  brawny  hands, 
-^-    And  laid  aside  their  masks  and  veils,  that  you 
Might  paint  their  ivory  pallor,  veined  with  blue, 
Their  periwigs  and  jabots  and  their  slight, 
Deflowered  waistcoats  and  bejewelled  strands,  — 
They  laid  their  scorn  aside  in  their  delight. 

You  dreamed  a  parchment  beauty  from  the  soul 
Of  Venice,  and  revealed  it  deathless  there 
In  spite  of  deadened  eyes'  and  lips'  despair ; 
Then  as  illusion's  very  shadow  died, 
The  brigand  that  was  in  you  gained  control 
And  with  your  peasant  fist  you  slew  their  pride. 

That  daub  of  rouge  upon  a  leering  hag 

Is  where  you  struck  your  queen;  that  reeling 

string 
Of  rogues  and  cripples  wrongs  your  Spain,  whose 

king 

You  set,  to  mock  her  anguished,  starving  lands !  — 
An  imbecile  upon  a  bloated  nag,  — 
You  struck  them,  Goya,  yet  they  kissed  your  hands. 
[99] 


GOYA  IN  THE  CUPOLA 

SCENE  :  the  scaffolding  in  San  Antonio  de  la  Florida 
at  the  gates  of  the  Royal  Casa  de  Campo,  near 
Madrid,  June,  1799 

FRAY  FELIX  SALZEDO  : 
(Prior  of  Aula-Dei  at  Saragossa). 

TT1IS  as  the  copla  sings,  —  "Mid  flowers  and  shade 
"*•    Thy  Hermitage  is  set,  O  patron  Saint 
Of  the  Florida,  to  whose  shade  and  flowers 
Thou  owest  the  sweet  name,  Antonio  blest ! " 

FRANCISCO  GOYA  Y  LUCIENTES: 

As  keen  in  memory  as  in  wind  and  limb, 

My  Father-Prior ;  why  you  climbed  as  though 

The  scaffolding  into  our  cupola 

Were  just  the  slopes  of  Fuendetodos,  where 

You  caught  me  scratching  pictures  on  the  bam  — 

FRAY  FELIX: 

And  fine  Court  gossip  make  they  of  it  now  — 
That  you  had  drawn  an  angel  there,  forsooth !  — 
Francisco,  come  —  confess,  —  you  might  as  well  — 
Your  earliest  portrait  was  the  pig ! 
[100] 


GOYA: 

Hush!  — Hush!  - 

Fray  Felix,  for  the  love  of  heaven !    This  dome 
Throws  down  an  echo,  —  wait,  —  we'll  be  alone. 
(Calling)  Julio !  Julio  !  —  drop  your  brushes,  lad,  — 
Lock  fast  the  outer  door,  and  when  there  comes 
A  carriage  to  the  Fountain,  bring  me  word.  — 
Now,  Padre,  we'll  talk  freely,  if  I  can 
But  see  your  lips,  for  spite  all  flatteries, 
My  ears  are  deaf  as  stones.     Your  prayers,  amigo, 
That  God  may  spare  my  sight,  else  I,  alas, 
Shall  be  shut  off  from  everything  on  earth. 
I  could  not  hear  you  as  we  drove  — 

FRAY  FELIX: 

I  praised 

Your  creamy-coated  mules ;  we  ne'er  have  seen 
The  like  in  Aragon  — 

GOYA: 

Their  legs  are  good ; 
Mine,  since  that  jennet  threw  me,  limp  a  bit. 

FRAY  FELIX: 

It  also  seemed  at  San  Vincente's  gate 
The  Guards  but  half  repressed  their  mirth,  that  you 
[101] 


Should  air  your  ghostly  friar ;  more  gallant  freight 
No  doubt  they  look  for  in  your  carriage  seat. 
Which  minds  me,  now,  Francisco,  should  it  hap 
These  scornful  gibers  block  your  way  to  Court, 
Send  them  to  me  at  Saragossa  where, 
Your  mother  Dona  Gracia's  family  shields 
Were  green  with  moss  an  age  ere  this  Madrid 
Was  thought  of  as  a  cure  for  Carlos'  gout. 

GOYA: 
My  paintings  there  in  Aula-Dei  — 

FKAY  FELIX: 

Peace,  — 

Our  friars  have  almost  grown  resigned  to  them  I 
After  that  fracas  in  Del  Pilar's  shrine 
Who  would  have  thought  that  I  should  ever  find 
My  Goya  in  the  cupola  again ! 
At  least,  no  friar  or  canon  scolds  you  here  — 
A  boudoir,  so  it  seems  —  half  chapel,  half 
A  lodge-house  by  the  royal  park,  where  maids 
Come  laughing  down  the  Manzanares'  banks 
To  pray  Antonio  for  a  marriage  ring  — 
Where  only  the  old  sacristan  bestirs 
On  Sunday  morns  to  shake  the  cobwebs  off, 
And  drive  the  bees,  so  some  Intendant's  wife 
[102] 


Can  hear  convenient  Mass,  —  where  prayer  and  rite 
Are  hushed  and  hurried  if  some  courtier  snore  — 

GOYA: 

True,  but  our  good  old  proverb  says  —  "  Of  King 
And  Inquisition  mum's  the  word  I"  —  Padre, 
When  have  you  known  your  Goya  play  the  saint  ? 
And  least  of  all  with  you !  —  What  harm  to  paint 
My  lovely  Duchess  —  if  she  deign  to  come 
To  have  me  set  the  rouge  upon  her  cheeks  ? 
Am  I  not  artist  in  my  studio 
As  any  maid  or  valet  in  her  house  ? 
You  scold  me  for  paramour  or  two ; 
Your  scamp  Francisco  —  to  believe  the  town  — 
Has  hundreds  both  at  Court  and  in  the  slums ! 
I  thrash  some  bully  at  the  fair  —  presto, 
They  say  I  kill  my  man  a  fortnight  now ; 
I  use  our  broad-staff  style  of  Aragon ; 
Behold  me  wizard  of  the  fence !    You  know 
How  with  the  neighbors'  boys  I'd  bait  the  bulls 
Near  Aula-Dei,  —  now  I  take  a  seat 
Beside  Romero  or  the  Costillares 
And  every  stroller  on  the  Alcala 
Proclaims  I  am  their  rival  with  the  dames 
At  Court,  as  in  the  arena  with  the  bulls !  — 
Such  idle  chatter  suits  this  idle  town ! 
[103] 


FRAY  FELIX: 

Lad,  —  lad,  but  somebody  must  pay 
For  knavish  tricks,  such  as  that  painted  bruise 
They  say  you  wrought  to  keep  the  faithless  wife 
At  home  when  her  poor  spouse  must  fare  abroad ; 
"Majas    Undraped"!  —  and    "Draped"  I  —  they 

have  a  leer 

As  though  to  tell  the  town  your  great  one's  name  ! 
And  now  what  have  we  here  ?    In  church  again 
You  paint  the  only  angels  you  have  known  — 
"Flesh  of  camellia  white  and  eyes  of  fire"  — 
Disquieting  spirits,  strangers  in  our  Spain, 
Carrying  their  pulsing  bodies  into  heaven 
In  worldly  bubble  o'er  this  frivolous  shrine ! 

GOYA: 

Nay,  Padre  mine,  —  but  my  Antonio, 

Do  I  succeed  with  him,  the  Paduan  mild 

That  wears  your  own  Franciscan  robe  of  brown  ? 

A  moment,  Padre,  let  me  touch  his  face 

Till  it  resemble  yours  the  more !  — 

FRAY  FELIX: 

Nay,  then, 

If  I  must  be  the  saint,  let  you  in  turn 
Be  pictured  in  yon  dancer  on  the  rope. 
[104] 


GOYA: 
Agreed.  —  Now  is  my  miracle  performed  ?  — 

FRAY  FELIX: 

Let's  say  the  saint  is  pleasing  —  neither  bold 

Nor  doubting,  yet  a  bit  amazed  to  hear 

The  dead  man  speaking.     Do  I  see  aright 

Your  father's  face  and  Dona  Gracia's 

In  those  on  either  side  with  lifted  arms,  — 

Antonio's  parents  who  have  been  accused 

Of  murder  while  the  corpse,  by  chance  unearthed 

Within  their  garden,  at  the  saint's  command 

Gives  answer  to  relieve  them  of  the  charge  ? 

Legend  or  history,  who  shall  say  ?    You  know 

How  popular  fancy  has  a  way  to  make 

Heroes  and  scapegoats ;  if  the  carnal  heart 

Fashioned  its  knights  and  damozels,  we  too 

Have  had  such  chivalry  of  saint  and  monk 

As  decks  our  chronicles  with  fables  still. 

The  scene  is  rendered  well,  —  as  for  your  crowds, 

They  trouble  my  old  soul  — 

GOYA  : 

Was  it  not  so 

From  art's  beginnings,  Padre  ?    Think  you  not 
When  Raphael  took  his  peasant  girls  to  make 
U05] 


His  high  Madonnas  there  was  none  to  carp  ?  — 
When  the  proud  Veronese  showed  the  lords 
Of  Venice  banqueting  with  Christ,  that  none 
Took  scandal  ?  — 

FRAY  FELIX: 

Truly  so  it  may  have  been ; 
Yet  in  the  earlier  manner  of  the  arts 
The  offence  seems  smaller ;  beauty  claimed  a  lift 
Beyond  the  actual  day ;  but  here,  Francisco  — 

GOYA: 

Here,  Padre,  you  would  say,  my  rabble  throngs 
With  life  too  common  round  a  miracle ! 
Should  Spaniards  make  a  pother  at  the  thought 
Of  supernatural  deeds  ?  —  A  corpse  is  brought 
To  light  —  our  race  has  ne'er  been  squeamish  there. 
The  urchins  clamber  on  the  railings,  —  nay, 
There's  no  offence ;  I've  seen  them  do  the  like 
Even  at  Del  Pilar's  shrine  —  the  merry  imps  — 
Mind  not  the  idle  gossips,  Padre,  —  look 
Yourself  and  see !  —  Where  are  the  scandalous  groups 
They've  made  such  chatter  of  ?    In  all  this  dome 
What  see  you  but  such  faces  as  we  know  ?  — 
Some  touched  with  holy  light,  —  some  with  sur 
prise,  — 

[106] 


Some  deadened  to  all  wonder,  —  some  engrossed 
On  private  themes  that  give  no  time  to  pause. 
Amid  our  modern  crowds  where  mark  we  now 
Such  splendor  as  the  old  Italians  saw  ? 
'Twas  mostly  fiction ;  mine  are  honest  crowds ; 
I  show  their  fascination  grim ;  for  pomp 
And  grandeur  look  elsewhere  !  —  A  saint,  you  cry, 
Performing  at  a  fair,  as  though  to  draw 
The  crowd  away  from  a  funambulist ! 
Yet  each  o'ermasters  nature's  laws :  —  the  saint 
By  grace  divine,  —  the  dancer  on  his  rope 
With  skill  that  flouts  our  feet  —  a  marvel,  yet 
No  contradiction  nor  denial  of  law. 
You  know  how  loath  I  ever  am  to  speak 
Of  technicals ;  my  rules  are  deeds  performed. 
Give  me  a  lump  of  charcoal,  that's  enough. 
I  know  but  sun  and  shadow,  —  as  for  lines, 
Where  do  we  find  them  save  in  studios  ? 
My  eye  sees  only  masses ;  things  designed 
And  rendered  for  themselves  to  be  undone 
And  merged  to  proper  state  to  form  the  mass. 
A  brush  or  rag  will  do.     Then,  if  you  wish, 
A  test  by  day  and  lamplight,  —  nothing  more. 
So  if  my  lynx-eyed  critics  claim  to  spy 
Manolas  I  have  known  among  the  crowds,  — 
Martincho,  or  some  picador's  dark  frown,  — 
[1071 


Or,  as  the  gossip  goes,  the  Queen  herself, 
The  Donas  of  San  Carlos,  Santa-Cruz, 
Monti  jo,  and  the  radiant  Alba,  here 
Smiling  as  angels,  let  them  know  the  truth,  — 
My  memory  acts  not  quite  unlike  my  sight ; 
It  sums  the  charms  and  individual  ways 
Of  each,  till  consciousness,  obscured,  becomes 
But  comprehension  of  them  all. 

FRAY  FELIX: 

There  sounds 

The  mighty  Goya !    Heaven  had  marked  you  out 
For  miracles,  —  Alas !  your  wasted  years !  — 

GOYA: 

Who  knows,  —  my  hearing  gone,  but  sight  half- 
spared,  — 

God  still  may  claim  me  for  His  holy  cause  ? 
Padre,  I  bring  but  tainted  Hands ;  perchance 
They  yet  can  serve  — 

FRAY  FELIX: 

As  hers  that  loving  brought 

The  ointment  to  the  stranger's  house !    Who  knows 
When  we  and  many  generations  lie 
In  dust  what  men  with  newer  minds  shall  come, 
And  hearing  my  dear  Goya's  name,  be  swept 
[108] 


With  thrill  ecstatic,  venerating  this 

Which  now  confounds  me  —  Hush,  your  Julio  calls  — 

JULIO: 

(Shouting  and  gesturing  from  bekw) 

The  carriage,  Excelencia  !  —  awaits 
Beside  the  Fountain  of  the  Fan ! 

GOYA: 

Padre, 

A  whisper,  —  'tis  the  Queen  herself  commands. 
Though  deaf  and  lame  I  still  am  dangerous  I 
How  seems  my  coat  ? 

FRAY  FELIX: 

That  of  perfect  Don 
Who  breaks  a  heart,  or  head  — 

GOYA: 

Or  fights  them  off.  — 
Show  Julio  how  to  rein  the  restless  mules ; 
Josefa  waits  at  home  for  chocolate 
Among  the  children ;  I  shall  come  in  time 
To  drive  you  to  your  cloister  door  myself.  — 
Nay,  you're  the  elder,  Padre,  —  take  my  arm  — 
I  know  the  steps.  —  And  now,  —  my  cloak  and  sword. 

For  Santiago  Montoto  de  Sedas. 
[109] 


THE  FOUNDLING 

T30RN  of  the  flesh  alone,  no  parentage 
-*~^  Of  mated  souls  had  he ;  the  orphan  child 

Of  joy,  he  took  the  husks  of  life  defiled 
And  nursed  his  spirit  on  his  wrong  and  rage. 
Touch  not  his  past ;  it  perished  on  the  page 

Where  first  a  waif  and  foundling  he  was  styled ; 

As  for  his  future,  its  lone  path  is  piled 
With  such  inheritance  as  none  would  gauge. 

Out  of  your  carven  galleries  look  down, 

But  let  him  pass,  ye  children  of  the  crown,  — 

Nor  bring  your  pity,  purchased  spouses,  here ! 
But  oh,  ye  wedded  hearts,  ye  mothers  true, 
Out  on  the  road  is  one  that  doubts  of  you,  — 

Let  not  his  burden  pass  without  your  tear ! 


[110] 


JUNGLE  DANCE 

GTRUMMING  of  banjos,  pattering  of  feet 
^  Among  the  cabins  where  the  moon  is  white 
Upon  the  river,  and  the  dancers  meet, 
And  prance  and  caper  all  the  torrid  night. 

Banjos  and  bones ;  the  old  remembered  whine 
Of  voodoo  incantation ;  petulant  strum 

Like  cannibal  tomtoms ;  frantic  intertwine 
As  when  they  battered  the  bamboula  drum. 

t 
Stealthily  prancing,  with  white  eyes  ashine  — 

Now  stiff  as  sculptures  on  Egyptian  tombs, 
Now  sleek  and  haughty,  cringing  and  malign  — 
They  glide  like  Afric  tigers  in  the  glooms. 

Or  loose  and  fluttering  as  some  scarecrow  blown 
In  idiot  frolic  (Hark,  the  cobra  hiss  I  — ) 

They  twist  and  twine  some  Dance  of  Death  un 
known  — 
The  blasphemy  and  mockery  of  bliss. 


[Ill 


THE  LARKS  OF  GLENDALOUGH 

A  LL  night  the  gentle  Saint  had  prayed, 
•^*"  And  heedless  of  the  thrush  and  dove 
His  radiant  spirit  still  delayed 
To  hear  the  seraph  choirs  above. 

So  still  he  knelt,  his  arms  outspread, 
His  head  thrown  backward  from  his  breast, 

A  lark  across  the  casement  sped 
And  in  his  fingers  built  her  nest. 

And  ere  the  music  from  his  soul 

Receded  with  the  flood  of  day, 
Through  Glendalough  the  sunshine  stole 

And  brushed  the  mists  and  dews  away. 

'Twas  then  the  Saint  beheld  the  bird 

Serenely  nesting  in  his  hand, 
And  murmured,  "Ah,  could'st  thou  have  heard 

The  matins  in  that  seraph  land  I" 

Then  softly  turned  he  back  to  pray, 
Nor  ever  moved  his  arms,  from  close 

Of  eve  or  morn  by  night  or  day, 
Until  her  nestlings'  voices  rose ; 
[112] 


Then  as  his  heavenly  trance  was  done, 
Above  the  glen  he  heard  them  cry, 

"O  Kevin,  Kevin  I    Loving  One ! 
We  sing  to  God  thy  soul's  reply." 

For  Thomas  A.  Daly. 


[113] 


SISTER  GREGORIA,  TO  A  BIRD  AT 
SUNSET,  SEVILLE,   1686 

pNVYING  a  little  bird 
•*"^  His  flight  to  heaven  my  heart  is  stirred, 
So  hardy  is  the  wing  he  finds 
To  breast  the  banter  of  the  winds,  — 
So  lightly  pulsing  doth  he  fare 
Enamored  of  the  sunset  there !  — 
Would  I  were  with  thee  in  thy  flight, 
Fair  plaything  of  the  breeze,  to-night, 
And  from  thy  heart  such  impulse  know 
As  speeds  thy  steadfast  pinions  so ! 
For  of  The  Sun  Supreme  am  I 
A  love-delirious  butterfly ; 
By  tender  dawns  I  sip  —  but  claim 
The  blossom  of  that  Noontide  Flame. 
Unto  thy  heart  yon  crimson  tryst 
Of  sunset  glory  hath  sufficed ; 
Thy  spirit  glad  and  free  of  care 
Doth  to  its  golden  lattice  fare ; 
But  I  who,  knowing,  love  and  pine 
For  One  that  is  The  Sphere  Divine, 
Of  griefs  my  only  wings  can  make 
And  flights  alone  on  sighings  take. 
Do  thou,  far  bird,  on  tireless  wing 
[114] 


Beyond  the  heavenly  archway  spring, 
And  breasting  higher,  higher,  bear 
This  message  of  my  fond  despair :  — 
To  say  that  all  my  heart  and  soul 
Aglow  have  passed  beyond  control ; 
Annulled  unto  my  limbs,  that  I 
Live  hanging  on  a  single  sigh. 
Yet  when,  of  visionings  distraught, 
My  soul  would  seize  the  raptured  thought 
To  mount  away  to  its  delight, 
It  finds  no  stirrup  for  the  flight. 


[115] 


ANTIETAM 

FOR  THE  39TH  REUNION  OF  THE  SOCIETY  OF  THE 
ARMY  OF  THE  POTOMAC 

Read  on  the  Battlefield,  September  16th,  1910. 


more  the  scythes  and  sickles  on  the  hill  ; 
Once  more  the   harvest  morns,  where  sinewy 

Peace 

Swings  with  bright  blade,  and  song  upon  the  still, 
Clear  air  grows  sweeter  as  night's  thunders  cease. 

Time  on  a  summer  breath  has  blown  away 
The  funeral  rains,  the  lightnings,  and  the  cloud  ; 

Drenched  in  the  silver  dews,  each  break  of  day 
Reveals  the  corn-fields'  waving  plumes  unbowed. 

There  is  a  bird  in  every  orchard  sings 
With  cadence  softer  than  it  knew  till  now  ; 

Tenderer  the  gleamings  of  these  meadow  springs  ; 
Richer  the  warm  upturnings  of  the  plough. 

Here  children's  eyes  with  newer  beauty  glow, 
And  lovelier  falls  the  laughter  'round  the  door  ; 

The  nestlings  twitter  when  the  storm-clouds  go  ; 
Peace  is  the  sweetest  first  fruit  after  war. 
[116] 


What  mockery  of  heaven's  eternal  plan, 
As  here  in  gentle  pasture,  grove,  and  spire, 

Ordained  such  morn  of  destiny  for  man, 
And  choked  these  skies  with  conflagration  dire  ! 

What  blighting  sun  gave  signal  for  that  day 
Across  these  hillsides?  —  bade  the  fields  of  corn 

Their  glint  of  lurking  bayonets  betray, 
And  the  grim  reaper  Death  arise  in  scorn  ? 

Here  chariots  of  gods  and  fiends  flamed  by, 
And  thunders  quaked  across  the  shrieking  gale, 

Where  bodies  fell  and  souls  went  up  the  sky 
As  wheat  and  chaff  unto  the  iron  flail ! 

O  breast  grown   cold   without  them!  —  lips  that 

wait 

Their  tardy  trysting !  —  would  ye  more  abide  ? 
Down  broke  the  bloody  dikes  of  hate ! 
Day  looked  no  more !  —  Earth  gulped  the  greedy 
tide !  — 

If  there  be  flowers  blood-precious  in  the  sod, 
Pulses  still  nobler  hallow  all  this  air,  — 

Inspiritings  of  fatherland  and  God 
That  hush  the  thoughts  of  hatred  or  despair. 
[117] 


Pure,  too,  the  comrade  hearts,  who,  doubly  brave, 
To-day  face  memories  of  youth  and  pain ; 

Here  victory  from  all  defeat  to  save  — 
From  old  defeat  new  victory  to  gain ! 

These  graves  are  bulwarks  —  you,  the  nation's  sires 
Along  bright  Fame's  horizon !  —  Sentry-wise 

Upon  the  mountain  heights,  you  tend  the  fires 
That  freedom  signals  back  into  the  skies ! 

For  General  Horatio  C.  King. 


[118] 


ODES  FROM  THE  SPANISH  OF  FRAY  LUIS 
DE  LEON.     SALAMANCA,  1528-1591. 

(1) 
TO  THE  LICENCIADO  JUAN  DE  GRIAL 

1VTOW  is  earth's  loveliness  withdrawn 

Unto  her  bosom ;  now  the  heavens  are  stoled 

In  vesture  of  the  fading  lawn ; 
And  from  the  branches'  lifeless  hold 
Leaf  after  leaf  unto  the  ground  is  doled. 

Now  Phoebus  turns  on  sunlit  tread 
Adown  ^Egean  shores ;  the  coursing  day 

Runs  swifter ;  noontide  is  bespread 
With  herding  of  the  fleeces  gray 
Of  ^Eolus  upon  his  blustry  way. 

By  dim  horizons  go  the  cranes 
Of  Ibycus  migrating  with  their  cry 

Portentous ;  now  the  bullock  strains 
Against  the  yoke  his  shoulders  high, 
Turning  the  patient  furrows  to  the  sky. 

To  noble  studies  would  the  hours, 

Grial,  convene  us ;  and  the  voice  of  Fame 
Call  upward  to  her  sacred  towers, 
[119] 


Yea,  to  her  summit  bid  us  aim, 

Where  never  yet  the  breath  of  passion  came. 

To  her  sure  guidance  bolder  strides 
The  foot  upon  the  mountain ;  so  it  gains 

That  final  peak  whence  purest  glides 
The  fountain  free  as  yet  of  stains ; 
Drink  there  thy  fill,  so  thirst  no  more  remains ! 

Then  naught  to  thee  is  golden  lure 
That  snares  mankind  upon  a  fevered  quest 

For  that  which  can  no  more  endure, 
Than  gossamer  the  zephyr's  breast 
Is  wafting  light  and  fickle  without  rest. 

Doth  God  Apollo  smile  ?  —  then  write ; 
Be  peer  with  olden  poets,  —  take  thy  stand 

Above  our  newer  bards  in  might ; 
But  oh,  dear  friend,  not  hand  in  hand 
May'st  hope  to  clasp  me  on  that  songful  strand  I 

For  I,  whom  whirlwinds  have  assailed, 
And  treachery  from  brave  adventuring 

Down  to  the  very  grime  hath  haled, 
Find  broken  —  la  wounded  thing !  — 
My  lyre  beloved  and  my  soaring  wing. 
[120] 


(2) 
THE  HEAVENLY  PASTORAL 

"D  ESPLENDENT  precinct  of  the  skies,  — 
^  Fair  sward  of  gladness  neither  snow 

Nor  parching  breath  of  noonday  tries,  — 
Domain  whose  sacred  uplands  show 
Its  peace  ungarnered  deathlessly  aglow !  — 

His  brows  in  white  and  azure  crowned 

Athwart  thy  pastures  softly  wends, 
O  flock  endeared,  with  thee  around 

Thy  Holy  Shepherd ;  thee  He  tends 

Unarmed  with  staff  or  sling  where  naught  offends. 

He  leads,  and  happy  sheep  o'erflow 

Around  Him  in  a  loving  feud, 
Where  the  immortal  roses  blow 

And  verdure  ever  is  renewed 

Howe'er  the  flock  may  graze,  in  plenitude. 

And  now  upon  the  mountain  ways 
Of  Bliss  He  guides ;  now  by  the  stream 

To  bathe  them  in  His  grace  He  strays ; 
Now  grants  them  banqueting  agleam  — 
Himself  the  Giver  and  the  Gift  Supreme. 
[121] 


And  when  the  orb  of  noon  attains 
The  zenith  of  its  fiery  powers, 

Amid  His  fondlings  He  remains 
To  drowse  away  the  torrid  hours 
And  cheer  with  voice  serene  the  holy  bowers. 

He  wakes  the  viol's  melting  tone, 

And  sweetness  trembles  through  each  soul 

Unto  such  golden  joy  unknown ; 
Enraptured  then  beyond  control 
It  casts  itself  on  Him,  its  only  goal. 

O  Breath !  O  Voice !  —  mightst  Thou  ordain 
Some  little  echo  for  my  breast 

Till  self-surrendering  in  that  strain 

To  Thee  —  'twould  be  of  Thee  possest, 
0  Love,  and  on  Thy  shoulder  find  its  rest ! 

And  where  thou  lingerest  at  noon, 
Sweet  Spouse,  oh,  would  my  spirit  knew !  — 

That  breaking  from  this  prison  swoon, 
Forever  thy  far  flocks  in  view, 
'Twould  stray  no  more,  save  paths  Thou  leadst 
them  through ! 


[122] 


(3) 
TO  FELIPE  RUIZ 

r\  WERE  it  mine,  Ruiz,  to  grow 

The  wings  of  heaven,  and  out  of  bondage 

here, 

Ascend  beyond  the  life  we  know 
Unto  that  outmost  crystal  sphere 
Where  Truth  itself  shines  ever  pure  and  clear ! 

There  portioned  to  my  very  soul 
To  witness  in  a  light  no  shadow  flaws 

The  sun  and  measure,  part  and  whole 
Of  all  that  is,  of  all  that  was, 
The  prime  beginnings,  and  the  hidden  cause ; 

To  know  at  last  what  sovereign  hand 
The  framework  of  the  universe  made  fast ; 

How  plumb  and  level  it  was  planned, 
How  sure  the  anchor  that  was  cast 
To  lodge  our  ponderous  globe  within  the  vast ; 

The  eternal  pillars  where  of  old 
Earth  was  established,  where  the  hollow  bounds 

Of  seas  were  set,  would  I  behold ; 
What  marks  the  waters  from  the  ground, 
Or  hurls  them  surging  back  to  their  profound ; 
[123] 


Wherefore  the  solid  rock  must  quake, 
Wherefore  the  deeps  in  tempest  rage  are  stirred, 

And  whence  the  North  his  blasts  can  take ; 
The  ocean's  tides,  what  potent  word 
Doth  bid  increase,  and  rise,  and  shrink  unheard  ; 

The  lordly  channels  of  the  winds, 
What  power  supports  in  upper  space ; 

What  mighty  forge  the  lightnings  binds ; 
Within  what  hidden  treasure  place 
God  stores  the  snows ;  His  thunders,  whence  they 
race. 

Thou  knowst  the  portents,  when  the  air 
Is  sudden  troubled  'mid  the  summer  day, 

How  quickly  darkness  gathers  there, 
How  from  the  north  the  blast  makes  way, 
Tossing  the  dust  to  heaven  in  savage  play, 

As  'mid  the  clouds'  commotion  dire 

The  darting  chariot  of  God  arrayed 
Goes  forth  upon  its  wheels  of  fire 

With  lightning  bolt  and  cannonade, 

Till  earth  lies  trembling,  and  mankind  dismayed ! 

Down  beats  the  rain  upon  the  roof ; 

From  off  the  hills  the  raging  freshets  pour ; 
And  for  their  labor's  poor  behoof, 
[124] 


The  hapless  husbandmen  deplore 

The  fields  they  tilled  and  planted,  flooded  o'er. 

On  high  beyond  it  all  would  I 

Review  the  vast  succession  of  the  spheres, 
The  sudden  conflicts  of  the  sky, 

The  bland  composure  of  the  years, 

The  Fates,  their  causes,  omens,  hopes,  and  fears ; 

Knowing  what  Power  upon  the  stars 

Hath  set  alight  their  lovely,  faithful  flame ; 

And  why  the  Ursine  stellulars, 
The  Great  and  Little,  with  the  same 
Reluctance  dip  them  when  the  oceans  claim ; 

Searching  the  eternal  orb  of  gold 
That  is  the  fount  of  light  and  life,  to  wrest 

The  secret  why  the  winters  fold 
Its  beams  so  hurried  in  the  west, 
And  Who,  the  night-long,  cloaks  it  to  His  breast. 

Then  would  I  on  the  azure  rim 

Discern  the  unshaken  mansions  of  content, 
The  house  of  treasures  never  dim, 

The  cenacles  of  glad  ascent 

Where  blessed  dwell  the  souls  in  wonderment ! 
[1251 


(4) 
TO  OUR  LADY 

TTIRGIN,  —  thou  purer  than  the  sun, 

Glory  of  mortals,  and  of  heaven  the  light, 
Whose  piteousness  doth  match  thine  high  estate,  — 
Unto  the  earth  0  bend  thy  sight 
And  mark  a  wretched  prisoner  undone 
Amid  the  grief  and  darkness  of  his  fate, 
And  shouldst  thou  find  no  doom  to  mate 
With  his,  nor  judgment  equal  to  the  wrong 
Wherein  through  guilt  of  others  he  remains, 
With  hand  divinely  strong, 
O  Queen  of  Heaven,  strike  off  the  heavy  chains ! 

Virgin,  —  to  whose  predestined  breast 
The  Godhead  came  and  found  a  pure  repose, 
Wherein  thy  sorrows  to  thy  raptures  turned,  — 
If  meekly  thou  didst  take  the  blows, 
So  now  a  breast  serene  canst  manifest 
From  out  the  cloud-topped  glories  thou  hast  earned ; 
Show  forth  the  brows  where  love  hath  yearned, 
The  boast  of  heaven  as  well  the  adored  of  earth ; 
Put  by  the  mists  and  let  the  day  shine  clear ; 
Thy  dawning,  Lady  of  high  worth, 
Shall  put  to  flight  my  gloom  and  blindness  here. 
[126] 


Virgin  and  Mother  joined  in  one,  — 

Who  bore  thine  own  Creator  as  thy  Child, 

Thou  at  whose  bosom  Hope  itself  took  flower,  — 

Behold  how  sorrow  hath  defiled 

And  heaped  my  burthens  till  I  lag  undone ; 

Abroad  stalks  hatred ;  friendship  sleeps  the  hour ; 

If  thou  assert  no  more  the  power 

Of  Truth  and  Justice  that  took  birth  of  thee, 

What  other  shelter  is  there  left  secure  ? 

Yet  thou  art  Mother  —  turn  and  see,  — 

And  all  is  well  with  that  which  I  endure. 

Virgin,  —  whose  garment  is  the  sun, 

Whose  brows  are  royal  with  eternal  stars, 

Whose  foot  sublime  doth  tread  the  crescent  moon, 

Lo,  venomed  envy  mars, 

And  lures  that  mock,  and  webs  of  slander  spun, 

Unsparing  hate,  and  lawless  might  are  soon 

Conspired  to  waste  my  every  boon ! 

To  meet  their  horde  accursed  what  avail 

Such  weak  and  meagre  weapons  as  are  mine, 

If  calling  thee,  O  Mary,  fail 

To  enlist  thine  aid  amid  tho  strife  malign? 

Virgin,  —  who  triumphant  bore 
The  raging  serpent  down  to  weep  his  loss, 
His  doom  eternal,  and  defeated  greed,  — 
[127] 


Secure,  full  many  gaze  across 
The  river  rushing  by  their  placid  shore 
Where  I  am  gasping  out  amid  my  need ; 
Some  well  content  to  see  the  deed ; 
Affrighted  some ;  no  more  can  pity  there 
But  raise  afar  his  fruitless  voice  of  woe,  — 
Whilst  I,  mine  eyes  in  tearful  prayer 
To  thee,  go  floundering  in  the  undertow. 

Virgin,  —  unto  the  Father  spoused, 

Sweet  Mother  to  the  Son,  thou  temple  shrine 

Of  Love's  immortal  Spirit,  thou  shield  of  man,  — 

Disasters  haunt  these  eyes  of  mine, 

For  if  I  stay  I  am  with  dangers  housed ; 

To  go  means  peril ;  fate  each  step  doth  ban ; 

No  pity  knows  the  hostile  clan ; 

Truth  is  stripped  bare,  and  falsehood  panoplied 

With  steel  and  weapons,  till  in  misery 

My  life  is  to  despair  decreed 

Save  that  I  turn  me  with  a  sigh  to  thee. 

Virgin,  —  who  at  God's  high  behest 
Returned  assent  as  humble  as  entire, 
Thou  whom  the  heavens  are  gladdened  to  behold,  — 
I  am  as  target  to  their  ire, 

My  shoulders  bound,  mine  eyes  of  sight  distressed, 
With  arrows  hurtling  on  me  hundredfold 
[128] 


That  aim  to  wreak  me  ills  untold ; 

I  feel  the  wound  though  he  that  gives  it  hide,  — 

From  flight  shut  off,  my  hand  without  a  shield  — 

Thy  Sovereign  Child  who  ne'er  denied 

His  loving  Mother  my  relief  will  yield. 

Virgin,  —  thou  morning  star  benign 

Across  the  sea  of  tempests  shining  down 

With  light  of  guidance  so  the  winds  are  stilled,  — 

The  thousand  billows  are  conspired  to  drown 

A  bark  dismantled  'mid  the  gulfing  brine 

Without  a  ballast,  sail,  or  oar,  but  spilled 

And  tossed  as  every  whirlpool  willed ; 

The  night  comes  down ;  the  airs  with  thunder  quake ; 

Now  rearing  'gainst  the  skies,  now  plunging  low, 

The  yards  and  tackle  groan  and  break,  — 

Help !  —  ere  we  strike  upon  the  rock  of  woe ! 

Virgin,  —  unblemished  with  the  stain 
That  is  the  common  doom  of  humankind 
Since  that  first  disobedience  was  wrought,  — 
Full  well  thou  knowest  how  my  hopes  reclined 
On  thee  from  earliest  days ;  though  sin  hath  ta'en 
My  claim  and  left  my  erring  life  with  naught 
Deserving  of  thy  saving  thought ; 
Yet  be  thy  clemency  so  nobly  shown 
Till  increase  of  its  blessing  shall  extend 
[129] 


To  match  the  measure  of  my  moan ; 

The  less  my  merit,  thine  the  more  amend  ! 

Virgin,  —  the  crush  of  sorrowing 
Distrains  my  tongue ;   the  voice  of  my  desire 
No  more  can  speak  aloud  its  humble  plea ; 
Yet  hearken  thou  the  anguish  dire 
My  soul  unceasing  opens  unto  thee ! 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America. 


[130] 


T 


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